


Monuments

by imperfectkreis



Series: Monuments [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Burnplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Master/Pet, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Service Top, Sex Tapes, Smoking, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are explicit fills from the fallout kink meme between Male SoSu and Danse. At the top of each chapter, kinks are listed. There's basically no plot information in any of these, and should be readable without my other series (though they use the same SoSu).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clear and Defined

**Author's Note:**

> D/s (service top), dirty talk, oral, pet play (light), humping, collars

Danse wishes the floor weren't metal. It's too hard, too cold under his bare shins, rivets cutting against his knees. Otherwise, this is perfect. He’s alone in the quiet, waiting for Master to arrive.

He sits back on his heels, legs folded under his body, and resumes his wait for Master. Keeping his hands on his thighs, he dares not look at the opening door. But he can listen just fine. Master’s breath hitches when he comes in, when he sees Danse naked and kneeling. It takes all his self-control, not to launch himself into Master’s arms, to not hold him, kiss the side of his head, where his hair curls around his ears.

The doors here don't lock.

Danse left the collar on the bed. Thick enough it will look solid and firm around his neck. The black leather setting off Danse’s lighter, exposed skin. Looking at his knuckles, clenched on his thighs, they're pale, blood already rushing to his face and cock. Between his legs, he's hard. Master will like that.

But Master doesn't tend to him first, kicking off his boots in the corner with too much recklessness. He's careless with a lot of things, his hair, his attire, his health. But Danse trusts Master to be good, so good, to him.

When Master finally sits on the bed, Danse shifts his eyes up just enough to look at him, bare chested, but still in his khakis. He plays with the collar in his hands, working the silver buckle open, fascinated. He wicks his finger along the leather. Hopefully he likes it.

Master’s hair is loose, falling in soft, dark curls around his face, like a woman’s hair. Danse wishes he would cut it.

Leaning forward, almost on the floor himself, Master speaks for the first time. “Look.” His voice is hoarse with charm, cigarettes, and lust.

Danse looks up into dark eyes, deeply set. His neck is straight enough that Master slips the collar on, working the buckle closed. The leather cold, an unbroken ring around his neck, Danse breathes deep.

“Is it comfortable?” Master asks.

Danse only nods.

Master’s hands are back at his neck, loosening the buckle before pulling it one notch tighter than before. When Danse swallows, he can feel it constrict. That's better. Of course, Master knows best. He rubs his hands over Danse’s shoulders, down his arms, dipping fingers into muscle, feeling out pricks of bone at his elbows.

Satisfied, Master sits back on the bed. He spreads his legs, socked feet planted on the floor. The outline of his cock strains against the fabric of his slacks, pressed against his thigh but threatening to break out. Danse waits, like a good boy, for his command.

“Come here,” Master palms his erection through his pants. “If you're good, I'll let you taste.”

Danse crawls on his hands and knees until he sits in the cage of Master’s legs, his shoulders bumping between Master’s thighs. He tries to keep himself small, not take up too much space. But that is near impossible.

“Go ahead, boy, nuzzle it.”

Gleeful, Danse presses his face against the outline of Master’s cock, his lips first, kissing it chastely, then his nose, trying to smell Master’s arousal through layers of fabric. Turning his head, he presses his cheek to it next, soaking in the warmth there, trying to forget how his legs are cold.

Master pets Danse’s short cropped hair, moving down to his ears. He holds onto both ears at once scratching lightly, cooing “Good boy, good.” When Master reaches his shoulders, he lets his nails bite into Danse’s flesh; he claws, sending shockwaves through Danse’s nerves. Straight to his cock.

It's humiliating, in a way, to feel the bob of his cock between his legs, open and exposed. To feel the cold air over his body, to know the door isn't locked.

Master plays with the leather of his collar, running his fingers along the edges, trying to sneak a digit inside, pull it even tighter, until Danse can barely breathe, before pulling back out, the leather loosening. Master does it again. Bit by bit, the collar warms. The pressure against Danse’s Adam’s apple, nothing but welcome, a reminder of his position. He just wants to be good, be praised.

“Stop,” Master commands, pushing Danse’s head away. “Oh, don't look at me like that,” he smiles, “you've done so well.” Master runs his finger down the bridge of Danse’s nose. The finger is colder than Master’s groin is. Makes Danse shiver.

Master unzips his slacks, reaching into his boxers and pulling out his cock, heavy and dark with blood. He holds it in his hand, just before Danse’s lips. There it is again, the urge to lunge that Danse must fight, or he’ll be punished for sure. What sweet torture. 

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Master runs the tip of his cock against Danse’s lips, smearing precum on his face, as he travels from lips to cheek. He slaps Danse lightly on each cheek with it, laughing at the lewdness. 

Danse’s hands stay on the tops of his thighs, shivering in that space between depravity and rage. He wants so much to open his mouth, either to suck or scream. He wants Master. Master is infuriatingly immature.

“Suck.”

Doesn't have to tell Danse twice, he opens his mouth wide, taking half of Master’s cock down his throat in one go before wrapping his lips around the length. He salivates at the taste, at the silken feel of Master’s cock in his mouth, filling his hole with heat and girth. His hands still tremble, it can't be helped.

Master’s hand drifts to the back of his head, pushing Danse onto his cock, making him take more and more on each stroke until Danse’s nose tickles against the plane of his stomach. The hair there, Master has managed to trim, but it's still thick and dark.

“Fuck,” Master shudders, trying to maintain control. With both of his hands holding to Danse’s head, he thrusts his hips, slamming his pelvis into Danse’s face, nearly knocking him loose. “Yeah, take it just like that, show me what a good boy. What an obedient boy.”

Danse can't properly suck anymore, not with the rapid, aimless way Master fucks his face, trying to push and pull and rip him open. He can only hold his mouth open, saliva running from the corners of his mouth as he gags around Master’s cock, hitting deep inside his throat and holding.

Master isn't sitting anymore, half-standing over him, pushing them both back, threading to topple them to the floor. He grabs hold of the back of the collar, using it as a handle to direct Danse’s head as he fills him with cock. He litters obscenities like crashing waves along the shore.

When Master comes down Danse’s throat, it's thick, quick, too much at once. Master is loud and messy. Danse worries someone will hear. But he also worries about himself. How hard he is, how vulnerable. Cum dribbles from the corners of his mouth, mixing with the spit already streaked across his face.

Pulling out, Master looks down at him, his eyes still wide and his breathing heavy. “Shit.” He falls back onto the bed, tucking his softening cock back into his pants, zipping himself up. “You were good. Do you want your reward?”

Danse nods. Though he doesn't know what form the reward will take.

“You want to get off, don’t you boy?” Master looks frazzled, exhausted from his orgasm. Danse nods enthusiastically. He has to come, too painful not to, keyed up and aroused as he is. “Rub your cock against my leg then. Go ahead, hump me like the dog you are.”

Master's legs are long, but thin. He may be a tall man, but he's not built like Danse. But Danse would be lying if he said he didn't think about Master’s legs, wiry and lean. Wrapping both his legs around one of Master’s, Danse rubs himself against the coarse fabric of his pants. This will make them dirty, unwearable. Master must know that already. Danse raises and lowers his hips, chasing what friction he can find. His ass hits Master’s foot each time he grinds.

Master bounces his leg, a habit Danse generally finds annoying. But the vibrations of endless movement course through Danse’s body, rubbing up against him at every point of contact, trickling through his veins.

Unlike Master, Danse comes quietly, his belly tightening, spilling into the fabric of Master’s pants, wetting them with strings of cum. As the white behind his eyes fades, he feels fingers at his neck. 

Weiss takes off the collar.

“Are you alright?” he stokes Danse’s cheeks, down to his chin. Danse is worried that Weiss’ll be disgusted by the spit and cum on his face, but he just rubs some of it away. Now, his eyes are softer, as they sit together on the floor, their legs in a tangle, him half in Danse’s lap. “What you needed? Because I think we did pretty good, yeah? I mean, fuck, I liked it. You had fun too.”

“Yeah,” Danse’s voice sounds funny in his ears. “It is what I wanted.”

Weiss kisses him. Danse can feel the smile. “Good.”


	2. Obliterate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D/s, smoking kink, cigarette burns (everything is consensual)

The pack is new, uncrumpled. Like it's been waiting 200 years just for Weiss to find it in an otherwise wrecked metro station. The machine kept it intact, whole, just for him. Like its own little vault. Like Weiss himself was kept. When pack tumbles out, clunking against the tray, Weiss is downright giddy, clapping his hands around the cardboard and foil. 

Danse reminds Weiss how much he hates the habit.

“I know,” Weiss smiles around the cigarette already in his mouth. Lighting it, he's careful to blow the smoke away from Danse, instead of towards him. In the stillness of the station, there's no wind to worry about.

\--

“You want to make me happy, don't you?” Weiss drawls. He phrases it as a question. It both is and isn't interrogative. He can guess the answer. And Danse is proficient at saying ‘no,’ but Weiss can be even better at making sure he says, ‘yes.’

“Yes, Master.”

Weiss rolls his eyes, he doesn't like that particular part of the game. The ‘masters’ and ‘sirs’ and the little things that make it seem more like he's just a body filling up space, less like he's got Danse’s actual devotion. But maybe only because Weiss is scared, terrified really, that Danse will bolt at any minute. That Danse can just slip another man or woman’s name into his mouth, that someone else will make Danse whole.

That's not what Weiss is looking for. At least, not with Danse. He wants Danse to keep Weiss’ name on his lips, the blooming welts across his skin, the cum in his mouth, his everything, hold them close and not fucking let go.

“Don't call me that, okay?” Weiss plays with Danse’s hair, dark, straight strands between Weiss’ fingers, puffing up and falling down while he fidgets. It's starting to get long. Maybe Codsworth can cut it for Danse. “I don't like it.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't say you're sorry, just,” Weiss sighs. “I like my name. Don't you like it?”

“I suppose, I mean, yes. I do, I like it.”

“Then use it, okay?”

Danse breathes with his mouth open, “Vishnu.” It feels electric, pulsing down Weiss’ skin, all the way to his toes.

“Take off your clothes,” Weiss commands, his hands already at his shirt hem. He won't take off his slacks or shoes, at least not yet. But it'll be too hot in the basement if he stays fully dressed. 

There's time yet, as Danse strips, folding is clothes neatly over the back of the desk chair while Weiss waits. Even his socks are matched together, put in place. Sitting on the bed, Weiss smokes to pass the time. He doesn't need to rush this. Anticipation is part of the process. He plants his feet far enough apart that Danse will be able to kneel between them, when the time comes. The concrete will be hard and cold, but Danse never minds.

Danse is sort of glorious to look at, really. Hard, broad, and shaped quite perfectly. Every fucking inch. Dark hair across his chest, running down his arms. He should have more scars, Weiss thinks. It's a shame he's still so blank a canvas. Weiss thinks of all the scenes he could paint.

“Wait, I'm not ready.” Weiss nurses his cigarette, drawing out the time as Danse stands before him, naked and increasingly aroused. He keeps his hands at his sides, his back straight, as Weiss defers the moment. “Okay. Kneel.”

Danse slots his knees in between Weiss’ feet, his shoulders brushing against Weiss’ pant legs. Putting his hands behind his head, elbows sticking out, Danse waits for his next command. His eyes are bright, alert. His breath even, more relaxed than before. 

Pushing one hand flat to Danse’s chest, Weiss pushes him back, back, until his back arches as far as it will go. Tipping over, Danse’s shoulders hit the concrete first, his hands still glued to the back of his head. This trust between them, complete. Maybe it shouldn't be, though. Because while Weiss winds Danse’s legs around his hips, he knows he could destroy Danse. Rip him up, tear and tear until he shreds. And it would feel good, so fucking good to listen to that obliteration. They’ll disintegrate together, maybe. Into the nothing that scares Weiss a lot. Probably scares Danse more.

Weiss pulls himself back from the thoughts that just keep tumbling. He has to slow down, match Danse’s pace. 

“You are sure?” Weiss asks. Last chance.

“Yes.”

Weiss takes one more drag before splaying Danse open, uncurling Danse’s legs from around his hips. The skin inside Danse’s thighs is paler than his arms, his neck, his face. Places the sun hits. Makes blue veins all the brighter. Weiss traces with his fingers against one thigh first, misdirecting from where he plans to burn.

When the heat of the cigarette chars against Danse’s skin, his hips buck up off the cement. His mouth falls open, Danse’s groan penetrating Weiss so deeply he never wants it to stop. Wants it to ring forever. Danse’s leg starts trembling, in the way he always chides Weiss for doing when he's trying to sleep. Involuntary, on the edge of explosion. Because there's so much inside and it just won't sweat out.

A second feels like centuries, Weiss pulling the cigarette away. It's still alight, just barely. He finishes putting it out on the floor. Pressing his thumb just above the burn, Weiss watches the way the color turns, red and pink and blinding, the flesh changing shape, curling, accommodating for the violation. Like Weiss tried to fit all of their shared affection and desperation through the little tear, instead of only scratching the surface. He doesn't dare to touch it. As it is, it's already beautiful. Because it's Danse’s, and it's his. And they can't make anything together, fuck, they've tried. But they can rip each other up.

Weiss puts his finger in the little pile of ash, letting fine flakes stick to his damp skin. Bringing his hand to Danse’s mouth, Weiss waits for Danse to part his lips, licking away what remains.


	3. Glacial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> praise kink, handjob, mild bondage, dirty talk

Sir tells him to stay quiet, and still, while he makes Danse pretty. “Not that it takes much work.” Sir thinks he's always “fucking gorgeous.” Hearing that puts a pain in Danse’s stomach, right at his core. Because no one, before Sir, has said as much to his face. No one has ever said it between gentle kisses, soft hands. Sir’s hands are still soft, because he was never really a soldier.

Danse isn't naked, but he almost wishes he were. Dressed only in the jeans he wears around the bunker, when he has nowhere to go. He never has anywhere to go, anymore. Sir already told him to take off his shirt. “It's a crime to cover this up,” he runs his hands over Danse’s shoulders, down the plane of his chest, then back up to twist one nipple, then the other. Leaning forward, Sir bites at the left one, until Danse groans. He doesn't mean to. Sir told him to be quiet. As punishment, Sir stops.

Sir ties Danse’s hands behind his back, this time with one of his expensive ties from the old world. “I used to have to wear them to court,” Sir explains as he threads the knot. The fabric is almost as soft as Sir’s hands. “But I think it looks better like this.” Through Sir’s slacks, Danse can feel the pressure of Sir’s cock pressing against his ass. Danse doesn't mean to, but he rocks his hips back, maybe Sir will rock forward. Maybe his resolve will break. “You're always so greedy, aren't you?” Sir whispers against the shell of his ear. “You're going to make me think my cock isn't enough for you,” Sir laughs. “Maybe with the rads, I'll grow another one, just for you.”

He shouldn't make jokes about mutation. Danse remembers him, sick, on the floor of Virgil’s cave. How he could do nothing to help.

Hands reaching around, Sir pops open the fly of Danse’s jeans. Pushing them down off his hips, Sir grabs Danse’s cock, stroking it harshly, once, twice. Danse is careful to stay quiet. But his control is strained. He wants to buck into Sir’s hand. He wants Sir to fuck into him, leave him spent and stretched. An utter mess. So he can miss the feeling of being empty. A hollow thing without interiority. 

“You have such a nice cock, pet.” Sir kisses him above his ear. That's the first place Sir ever kissed him. And Danse mistook the gesture as a simple, old world custom. He didn't know then, he didn't know. “It's a real shame,” Sir strokes him with his soft hand. “That you’ll never fuck anyone with it. That you're such a greedy pet, always thinking of yourself. You just want to be fucked and filled.”

“Yes,” but Sir didn't say he could speak.

Sir’s hand speeds up, the heat across Danse’s abdomen blooming. He tries to keep his hips still. But it's so hard. Sir’s other arm wraps around Danse’s chest, pulling them so they're flush, Danse’s back to Sir’s chest. Danse’s bound hands between their bodies. There’s too much sticky heat.

He's close, so close. But Sir hasn't told him to come. Sir hasn't told him anything, but that he's pretty, greedy, and a slut.

“Sir,” if he says nothing, Sir will make him come. But Sir must know, from the way his balls tighten, his abdomen too. The subtle shake to his shoulders, the whine of the single word.

Just before he falls, Sir stops, releasing Danse’s cock and moving his hand back to his nipple. Grabbing and twisting until Danse groans in utter frustration. Stars behind his eyes but not satisfaction. His hips sway forward, snap back. Fuck, fuck, fuck. For a moment he's terrified that Sir won't let him come at all. That he's made too many mistakes. Been too loud, moved too much.

Sir rubs along Danse’s arms instead, from his shoulders down to his bound wrists. “You have such a lovely body. Every inch of it.” His fingers trail back up. 

Danse wants to sob, because he wants those hands on his cock. He wants them everywhere, really, but Sir only has two.

“Pretty, pretty pet.” Sir sounds almost mocking. “Do you think you deserve to come?” Sir kisses the back of his neck.

It's a direct question, but Danse isn't sure he's supposed to answer. He keeps his mouth closed, trying to focus on his breathing instead. Anything that will keep him from screaming.

Sir hooks one finger inside Danse’s mouth, commanding, “Suck.”

Danse swipes his tongue against the digit, coating it in spit as thoroughly as he can manage. But he's so distracted by the heavy weight of his erection between his legs, exposed to the air and Sir’s ministrations.

“Good pet, good. You're so well behaved.”

Sir takes his hand from Danse’s mouth, putting it again to his cock. His control is so fine, so sharp.

“I love you, Danse.” Right at his ear. So quiet against the merciless pounding of blood, Danse almost misses it, “You're mine. I'm yours.”

Danse doesn't have time to think before he's coming, spilling across the floor, shaking to keep his feet. Such a sudden rush, for a moment he wonders if he is really empty.

“Vishnu?”

“Hm?”

They're sitting on the floor, though Danse can't remember how they made it down. His back still to Vishnu’s chest, his arms crossed over Danse’s body, holding him loosely. The tie, unbound from Danse’s wrists and draped over his neck instead, falling on either side of his chest. Vishnu kisses at the back of Danse’s neck. Danse runs his fingers over the dark hair on Vishnu’s arms.

Danse forgets his question.


	4. Flaw in My Heart's Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oral, anal, dirty talk, rimming

“You’re beautiful, you know?” Weiss pops the gum in his mouth. The noise bounces off the metal tables, off the power armor casing, off of any surface it can scrounge. A hard click that breaks up the dull whir of the Prydwen’s engines.

Danse doesn’t bother to turn from the weapons bench. Though his hands still for a moment, before resuming. He doesn’t respond either, just goes back to putting his rifle back together, piece by excruciating piece. Weiss can’t figure why he bothers. When his own pistol starts falling to pieces, he just buys a new one. Danse says that’s wasteful. But all that’s left to this world is waste. Weiss might as well try to fit in. 

He pops his gum again. Already stale. The sticks don’t keep their flavor after the first few bites. But he’s not supposed to smoke inside the Prydwen, at least not where anyone can see. Safety or something about being suspended over the harbor. So, instead, he sits cross legged on the table across from Danse and smacks his gum loud enough to cause a ruckus. 

“The things I would do to you, given half the chance.” They’re alone, mostly. Oh sure, Scribes and Knights and Proctors and whatever, dozens of titles, wander around the belly of the ship. But they’re all minding their own goddamn business. Danse never understands that though. He thinks they're always being watched. Like people give a damn.

“Are you ever quiet?”

Weiss watches as precision cut pieces disappear back into the frame of the gun. “You know the answer to that,” pop.

Danse resumes his work.

Dropping the volume of his voice, Weiss tries again. “You know,” he’s the picture of confidence, “normally I’d say something about how quiet I can be when sucking your cock.”

“Weiss,” oh, how formal, how proper, back to last names. What a good soldier. Not those sweet pants of ‘Vishnu, Vishnu, oh,’ that Danse managed just the other night. 

Weiss tilts his ass so he can grab his cigarette from the back pocket of his jeans. No matter what he wears, he stands out among the Brotherhood, so he doesn't try to fit in anymore. Though he can't light the stick, he takes one out, twirls it between his fingers. “I'll show you, later.” It's both a promise and a threat.

\--

They're back in Danse’s quarters, because he's important enough to be allocated his own space aboard the ship. Weiss isn't complaining. He likes the way Danse looks pinned against the door, his hands above his head, his legs parted, skin flushed, hips grinding up. He's such a fucking pretty picture, full of want and need. He parts Danse’s mouth open with his tongue and teeth, happy enough to find Danse following unspoken direction to comply. 

“God,” Weiss grinds against Danse’s broader body. “So what should we try first, hm?” He moves his lips to Danse’s throat, drawing just enough wetness against his skin. He wants to bite. Hard, until Danse bleeds for him, gasping pretty and vulnerable.

“What do you mean?” Danse pants, his breath hissing at the end. 

Weiss laughs, “When I said I could be quiet.”

“Oh,” Danse’s spine stiffens. Weiss lets go of Danse’s hands, letting them drop back down to his sides. Still, Danse does not move, his back at the door.

“Take off your clothes,” Weiss smiles, tugging at the front straps of Danse’s Brotherhood uniform. “Come on.” It's a cumbersome article, better if Danse handles the buckles and zippers on his own.

Weiss sits on the edge of Danse’s cot, tugging off his boots. Danse is quiet as he works the suit off, pulling his arms from the sleeves, tugging it at his legs. At first he tries to cover himself, he always does. Weiss will never make sense of it. That strange shyness. While he waits for Danse to finish, Weiss pulls off his shirt.

“Why don't you come here?” Weiss suggests, coaxing Danse to come closer.

Without asking, Danse kneels at Weiss’ feet, hands folded in his lap.

“Nah, I said it’s my turn to be quiet. So I want you to be noisy, yeah?” He takes Danse’s chin in his hand, holding it in place so he can't look away.

Danse argues, “Others will hear.”

Weiss brushes off the comment, “Everyone already knows, Danse. Or think they know.” He smiles, taking the opportunity to tease Danse further. “I bet they think I'm your good little cocksucker, yeah? That you bring me to your quarters so you can fuck me to your heart’s content? Hold my face down and pull my ass up? You know that's what they think, don't you?”

Danse doesn't respond. Not at first.

“So don't worry about your pride, love. Everyone knows, and no one knows.”

“Doesn't it bother you?” Danse is incapable of telling lies. Weiss has figured that much out. He thinks lying is pointless, or unbecoming, or decadent, or something. Weiss already knows he's all those things, got them scratched across his bones. He's a pretty relic. “I mean, I don't think that's true. That people think...that. But if they did, wouldn't it bother you?”

“No, why would it?” Weiss pulls Danse up off the floor, encouraging him to straddle his lap. The bed sinks under their weight. But Weiss likes this, the press of Danse’s heavier body against his, the idea Danse could crush him, tear him to pieces, but he won't. Isn't in his damn nature. “You're gorgeous and strong and my commanding officer.” He curls his arms around Danse’s waist, digging his short-cut nails into the flesh of his back. “Why wouldn't I want you to fuck me through the mattress?”

“Because,” Danse hesitates, “You're not that...type.”

Weiss laughs, “I'm whatever type suits me at the moment.” He dips his hands lower, swiping his fingers along the soft skin of Danse’s ass, gripping and grabbing with greater intensity the more Danse responds. Grinding against his chest, trying to rub his cock against the flesh of Weiss’ abdomen. So needy. Fucking perfect. “Sit on the edge of the bed,” he whispers into Danse’s ear, “let me show you what ‘type’ I am.”

They disentangle their bodies, Danse coming to sit on the edge of the bed, his knees drawn together. He’s beautifully hard, his cock flush against his stomach. Weiss drops to the floor, pulling Danse’s knees apart so he can fit between. Grabbing the backs of Danse’s thighs, Weiss pulls him even further forward, until he's almost falling off.

“Tell me if you need me to stop, yes?” 

Danse nods.

Weiss pulls Danse’s cock, angling it to take it down his throat. In response, Danse hisses, his hands coming to rest at Weiss’ shoulders. Weiss bobs his head, stretching his lips further, until he reaches the base. Again and again, until he feels nails biting down against his skin. Danse is terribly impatient, as always, starved for kindness and affection. But Weiss has already resolved to try and satisfy. No matter what it takes. He’ll find the right words, the right touch, to show Danse he's loved. And that love is for who he is, not what he can provide in return. But Danse still doesn't understand, at least not yet.

Pulling off, Weiss looks up at Danse, his lips wet and swollen. Danse’s eyes are blown wide, black pupils blotting out the lighter brown. Weiss can't help but smile. He strokes Danse’s cock, happy with the whine of frustration that follows. “Turn over, onto your stomach.”

Danse does not question, he never does.

Weiss is careful to help arrange Danse on his stomach, his cock poking between his legs. He drops back to his knees, using his hands to pull Danse apart.

Whatever Danse had been expecting, Weiss is fairly sure it is not his tongue, warm and wet, lapping against his ring, his nose buried against his skin. Because Danse doesn't assume himself to be deserving of the kindness of others. Worth this sort of ‘decadent’ pleasure. Sensation for the sake of sensation. He doesn't expect to be treated fairly. It's why he thinks Weiss should be embarrassed that others think that Danse fucks him, instead of the other way around. 

“Sir…” Danse groans. Sometimes Weiss wants to bat that title out of Danse’s mouth. Because it's good and fun and Weiss likes it a lot, but he wants Danse to know it’s not a prerequisite. It's better when it's not required. But right now his mouth is fucking busy, slicking against Danse’s hole, feeling the way he twitches in response. Pulling away and then relaxing. Danse’s legs shake the more Weiss laps.

He takes one hand away, wrapping it instead around Danse’s cock, pulling it in slow strokes in contrast to the quick, sharp motions of his tongue. Danse isn't loud, he doesn't allow himself to be. But Weiss will find the right place, one day, where Danse is comfortable and open and expressive. But it won't be here on the Prydwen. Here they’ll only ever have half-measures, pantomimes of the intimacy they could otherwise have.

He gives one last lick, trailing all the way up to be base of Danse’s spine, right where the muscle indents, before speaking again. “You liked that, didn't you? How I opened you up with my tongue?”

Danse groans, “yes, Sir.”

“You're so wet now, ready to be fucked.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Weiss releases Danse’s cock, shoving down his own jeans. He's planned ahead, putting the tube of lubricant in his pocket. Smearing it against his cock first, he rubs the excess on his fingers into Danse. 

“This is always what you wait for, isn't it?” He holds himself over Danse’s open body, easing himself into him, one hand guiding his cock to Danse’s entrance. “Being filled with my cock, my cum coating your insides, making you feel owned.”

“Yes,” he hitches when Weiss enters him, “Sir.”

They roll together slowly, careful to keep the bed from creaking. Weiss wants to make this last, teaching Danse some fucking patience. Danse is so fucking deliberate with everything else, but with sex? He just can't hold out. He’s tight, and on the verge of begging. Lovely repetitions of “please, please please,” as his back grows sweaty.

“I love you,” Weiss promises. “That's why you shouldn't care either.”

Danse comes messily against the side of the bed, his hole tightening around Weiss’ cock until he spirals too, pumping into the relaxing body below him. Weiss tries to regain his footing in reality. But this is an endless fall, out of this fucking Prydwen, down to the airport, into the earth’s crust. They're going to sink like this, tangled in each other, because there's no way to stay aloft.


	5. Be The Lighthouse

The holotape is non-descript, plainly labeled, tucked in with half a dozen others. 

The settlers have not yet scrapped Weiss’ old home, though he often insists it should be the next priority. There isn't a single thing there he wants to keep, he tells them. This isn't his home. It is the condemned skeleton at the center of Sanctuary. But No one want to disturb the bones.

Weiss leaves Danse at Sanctuary. There's a settlement that needs the aid of the Minutemen, so he and Garvey depart together. Danse insists he can be of help, but Vishnu kisses him goodbye before crossing the bridge. They can handle this without him. He should get some rest. Danse’s ears flush red, because Garvey sees. Everyone knows he and Vishnu are intimate. But it's different for someone to see.

But Danse doesn't want to rest. He doesn't need it either. If anything, he's restless. Knowing full well that Weiss’ other companions hold no affection for him. They call him a spy, a nuisance, an asshole, the stray. The last one they do not say to his face, but he has heard it, when Wright and MacCready laugh over their morning coffee.

So he hides himself in Weiss’ not-home, his fingers running over his lover’s old possessions. Buries himself between old, decadent objects that have made it to the end of the world, but have not really survived.

Weiss lived here. Two hundred years ago. Now he claims he lives nowhere. Nowhere at all.

Because the others fear the ghosts in Weiss’ home; because they are annoyed by Weiss’ newest possession, no one disturbs Danse while he is here. He sits cross legged in front of Weiss’ holotape deck, a large, ostentatious wooden contraption, a piece of worthless furniture far bigger than its intended function, and holds old tapes in his hands.

Shaun’s first day  
Galicia Trial 1.6  
Galicia Trial 3.2  
12.10.72  
Shore w/ Dad  
03.14.75

The label on 12.10.72 is the most worn. Oils from touching it too much with dirty fingers have worn away the ink. Maybe that's why it's the one Danse can't help but hold. 

It's well past midnight, most of the settlement asleep. But Danse still doesn't try the tape in the large deck in Weiss’ living room. It probably doesn't work anyway. Going through the closets, Danse mostly finds garbage yet to be cleared, but is successful in locating a portable player. Clutching the device to his chest, he takes it to the bedroom, curling into a corner where he can't be seen from the outside.

The little screen flickers on, casting a dull glow across the room, the light bouncing off of what is left of the walls. The bed is smashed to pieces, shards of it blocking up the hole in the wall.

Danse inserts the tape in the player, double checking that the volume is down low. He's not sure what is on the tape. Only that Weiss must have watched it many times. That it must be something important.

Vishnu, looking somewhat younger, appears on screen. In 2072, he wouldn't be quite thirty yet. His face is close to the camera, adjusting it slightly, aiming it. He’s shirtless, thinner than he is now, without the small pocket of fat over his stomach, creeping around his hips. Just the top of his slacks are visible. Gray and pinstripe. When he steps away from the lens, Danse can see the figure of another man on the bed, sitting on the edge, in his boxer shorts and tee.

“I'll zoom it in,” Vishnu says from behind the camera.

“If this was your intent all along,” the other man says, with good humor “you should have gotten the smaller camera.”

The camera focuses on his face, bright and smiling, with short cropped, dark hair and amber eyes. Soft pink lips and a strong jaw. He's clean shaven and looks freshly scrubbed. 

“I'll buy another one later,” Vishnu says, still behind the lens. 

The shot pans from the man’s face, down his chest. His tee pulls too tight across his pectorals and over his biceps. To his groin, the start of his erection tenting his dark green boxers. Down to his legs. One of his socked feet shakes.

“You're planning on doing this again?” He asks, poking out his pink tongue. 

“Fuck yeah. Gets lonely, when you're not here. I want a whole fucking library,” still off-screen, Vishnu is undoubtedly amused. Danse can hear it in his voice.

Like being smacked with a sledge, Danse realizes what this is, what it is he's watching.

“Take off your shirt. Make it a show.” The camera tracks out slightly as the man stands, grabbing his shirt by the back of his collar and pulling it over his head. His body is sharply defined, through years of disciplined work. The cut of his abdomen, the bulk of his arms, the v at his hips, leading to his groin. He smiles, looking off screen. Looking at Vishnu. “Fuck, you're so fucking gorgeous, Nate.”

Nate.

This is Nate. This is Vishnu’ husband. The one for whom he still wears a gold band on his finger. Another on a cord around his neck.

“Turn around. I want to see your ass.”

Nate does as instructed, turning his back to the camera. Vishnu aims it further down to Nate’s hips.

“Take off your underwear.”

There's no hesitation, Nate dropping them to the floor, pooling around his feet. He leans over the bed, arching his back, sticking his ass out for Vishnu’s camera to inspect.

“I can't fucking wait anymore. Fucking hell.”

Vishnu comes around the camera, stepping into frame. Grabbing Nate by his hips, he turns him back around. He takes Nate’s face between both his hands, leaning down to kiss him, harsh and ragged, biting at his lips. Nate’s hands curl around Vishnu’s arms, holding him in place. The noise of one of them groaning is indistinguishable from the other. 

Knocking Nate mostly out of the frame, Vishnu pushes up against what must be the bedroom wall, pinning Nate against it. Nate must be twice as strong as Vishnu, but he doesn't use his weight, he lets himself be manipulated, let's himself be trapped. Vishnu’s hands drop to what must be Nate’s waist. Nate’s paler hands work open Vishnu’s slacks, tugging out his cock, dark and hard with blood, standing erect on Nate’s hand.

“Fuck, Nate. Want you to fuck me,” Vishnu groans, exposing his throat to Nate’s lips and teeth.

“Are you sure?” Nate's voice is softer now.

“Yeah, missed you so much.”

Kissing still, stripped bare, they fall together into bed. Vishnu on top of Nate, grinding their hips together, sinking into the mattress. The clean, white sheets.

This isn't the house at Sanctuary, that much is clear, the walls are different, the window, just at the corner of the frame, in the wrong place. The lights of pre-War Boston too bright and close.

Danse swallows, hard, as he watches Vishnu reach for the bedside table, pulling out lubricant and a foil packet in his hand. He takes Nate’s hand in his own, slicking it with lube.

It's dark. Everyone is asleep. But Danse doesn't want to...doesn't want to touch himself to this. But he's painfully hard in his jeans, his erection pressing sharply against the fly. If he unzips his pants, just a little. He won't be in quite so much pain.

That he should stop watching? That does not occur to him, enraptured as he is. With the soft noises of arousal rooting him in place. Vishnu’s hurried pants of “fuck, that feels so good, Predator.” Nate's fingers disappear into Vishnu’s body.

Stretched and ready, Vishnu tears the packet with his teeth, sitting back on his heels. Nate’s cock is thick, but shorter than Vishnu’s. Vishnu holds it upright as he slides the condom over it.

Nate rolls them both over, so that he's on top. They're both laughing, ecstatic with joy as Nate slips into Vishnu. He wraps his thighs around Nate’s hips, before Nate grabs at one leg, the one further from the lens, hoisting it over his shoulder. Vishnu hisses “Fuck,” before Nate thrusts again.

Danse’s hand is at his own cock, stroking against it, just to relieve the pressure, to add some edge of sensation to dull the frustration in his bones. 

Vishnu looks beautiful, his long hair like a dark halo around his head. And Nate, a better man than Danse, showing him all the love and affection that Danse can't express. Not in such elegant turns.

“I love you, I love you, oh, Vishnu, I love you.”

“Fuck, Nate, always, love you.”

Their hips roll together, up and down in waves of intimacy. Even when their lips meet, they're not quiet, sharing air and desperate trust. Nate supports himself on one arm, using the other to stroke Vishnu’s cock between their bodies.

Nate’s body is perfect. But Danse still likes Vishnu’s more. The long limbs, the lingering softness though he's more thin than anything else.

Danse licks his palm, wetting it with saliva before bringing it to his cock. Now he strokes in earnest, trying to make the pressure stop. He's painfully aroused and empty, watching the man who shares his bed, when they can find the time, the privacy. The one who keeps him close, whispering platitudes of affection. But it isn't this. It isn't what he had with Nate. The way they smile. The fierceness with which they love.

Danse is nothing. Undeserving of such soft words, though sometimes, Vishnu says them. They're always at the tip of Danse’s tongue. Please, please love me. Because no one else ever has. But Vishnu is not like him, so desperate for touch, for connection.

His hand speeds up, watching his lover fucked by another man. The man who had him first. Had him always. Whose name Weiss still cries in moments of abject anger. He's remaking the Commonwealth, tearing it up and stitching it back together, for Nate.

When Vishnu comes, he cries out Nate’s name. Hoarse. Nate shudders against him, quieter, more reserved. They touch each other everywhere, all at once, pinpricks of care. Like they never wish to be apart.

Danse ejaculates onto his chest, ruining his shirt. Oh, no. What has he done? He should not have...why didn't he turn it off? Why did he watch? His heart races, his lungs on the verge of collapse.

“I have a surprise for you.” Vishnu comes up onto his elbows, Nate just coming back to bed, his cock soft against his thigh.

Nate says, “why am I not surprised?”

They sit up in bed together, Nate’s head against Vishnu’s shoulder. In profile, the peculiar bump in Vishnu’s nose is obvious. His hair is a mess around his shoulders. Under the sheets, his hand moves. He hands Nate a small box. “Open it,” he smiles.

Nate lets out a sob, the box still closed. “Vishnu…”

“You're supposed to open it before you turn into a weeping mess,” he laughs.

The angle of the camera is such that Danse can't see what's in the box. Nate puts his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shuddering as he leans forward. 

“Is that a yes, then?” Vishnu’s voice has a soft edge of uncertainty. “You'll marry me?”

“Jhootha,” Nate teases, crawling on top of Vishnu, the sheets bunching up against their waists. The box already somewhere lost in the bedding. “Yes,” he kisses Vishnu, “Yes, yes, yes.”

“I promise you, things will be different. From now on.”

Danse finally ejects the vid, his hands still shaking, cum drying between the fibers of his shirt.

\--

Danse keeps the tape. And the player.

Weiss does not return the next evening, nor the next.

He watches 03.14.75, knowing full well what to expect, though the video turns out to be somewhat different. 

The vid starts with Nate, naked, on his hands and knees. A metal gag in his mouth, holding his lips and teeth open. He drools onto the carpet. Vishnu walks around him with the camera, getting every angle before coming back around, cooing that Nate is such a good boy, so obedient. He deserves his reward now. Nate nods with eager attention. 

Vishnu holds the camera in one hand, curling the fingers of the other around the black leather of Nate’s collar as he fucks into Nate’s open mouth. He thrusts and holds, knuckles turning white as he grips, waiting for Nate to gag around his cock, before pulling back, smearing spit and precum onto Nate’s upturned face.

This video is easier for Danse to watch. Less emotionally draining. That's not to say he likes it more, or less. And he still touches himself, not lasting much longer after Vishnu removes the gag, pushes Nate back, and drops the camera onto the carpet. They're half out of frame, Vishnu thrusting wildly into Nate’s ass. The sound of skin on skin. This is closer to what he knows. What he can understand.

After the video is over, Danse goes back to 12.10.72.

“Is that a yes, then? You'll marry me?”

“Jhootha. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

\--

Weiss returns to Sanctuary with Garvey by his side. When he left, he was wearing a chest piece. When he returns, he's wearing a scar.

“It's okay,” Weiss says, chewing on his molerat jerky lunch. “It's already fixed up. See?” He pulls open the tear in his shirt to show Danse where the big knife went through, slicing his shirt and then the skin beneath. There's the smallest trace of a white line where the skin stitched back together. “Stim worked just fine on it.”

Weiss’ companions don't let him carry his own stimpaks, they always administer them for him.

After lunch, Weiss excuses himself, Danse trotting after. They fall into step, walking out to the north-western edge of the settlement. Weiss grabs his hand and holds it as they walk, running his thumb over Danse’s knuckles. “Missed you.”

They sit together by the side of the creek, watching as it bubbles. The radiation isn't quite so thick here, not like closer to the center of the city. Weiss wouldn't care one way or another. He takes off his boots, then his socks. Dipping his feet into the stream, he lets the water run between his toes. 

“You'll get sick,” Danse warns.

Weiss shrugs his shoulders, lighting his cigarette. “It'll be worth it.”

Danse ends up between Vishnu’s thighs, the front of his slacks open while Danse takes him down his throat. Vishnu holds onto his hair, using it to hold Danse down until he's struggling for air, before pulling him sharply back off. “Such a good boy. You're doing so well,” he strokes the fingers of his other hand against Danse’s cheek. “You're so pretty with a cock in your mouth.”

“Yes, Sir,” Danse pants, eager to get back to work. Danse's shoes and pant legs end up soaked with river water, but he doesn't care.

\--

Weiss leaves again, this time with Wright and MacCready. He doesn't tell Danse where he's going, or what he's doing. The synth tells him not to worry his pretty head, his own voice somewhat unsure. The five of them walk together to the bridge. Danse tries not to look at the mercenary or the synth. They make him feel ill.

Wright scrunches her nose, “Guess we’ll see you around.” At least she acknowledges Danse’s existence. 

Vishnu kisses him goodbye. Tells him to stay safe. But he's the one left behind. Danse doesn't know what's going on. Whether he's fallen out of favor. If Weiss is starting to take what the others say about him to heart. But they're wrong! They're all wrong! His hands are shaking.

At night, in Vishnu’s bedroom. He watches 12.10.72. He watches it twice. Then he watches the hole in the ceiling, just listening to the moans and grunts and tender words. Laying flat on his back, the portable player at his side, Danse unzips his jeans. Splinters of wood cut against his back. He bends his knees, using the leverage to thrust into his curled hand.

12.10.72 starts over again.

“I'll zoom it in.”

“If this is what you intended…” Danse mouths along.

\--

Danse takes to sleeping in Weiss’ old home. No one complains. He's dragged a sleeping bag in. He contemplates returning to the Prydwen. If Weiss needs his help, he can find him there. If he doesn't, it's better that they end this.

There are footsteps in the living room, debris crunching underfoot. Danse reaches for his pistol, on top of his pile of clothes. It could be nothing. But he can't trust anyone here. Not anymore than they are willing to trust him.

Weiss steps into the bedroom, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He puts it out in the ashtray on the dresser. Danse relaxes, putting his gun back down. “Vishnu?”

“Val said you might be here.” He pulls his shirt off, drops his slacks, before getting on the floor. Danse unzips the sleeping bag, but it's really not big enough for them both. Still, Vishnu crawls in, smelling like smoke. His mouth tastes slightly chalky, and a little like whiskey. They pull the bag around them, but it won't zip up again. Their bodies curl together, making up the difference in warmth. “Missed you, missed you. So fucking much,” Vishnu rasps against Danse’s throat.

“Then why didn't you take me?”

“Couldn't,” Vishnu rolls Danse onto his back, “can't.” They're quiet for some time more, kissing and grinding beneath the downy sleeping bag. Vishnu hasn't shaved in days, his stubble thick against his cheeks. “Want me to suck your cock?”

“Please, Sir.” He'd like that very much, but there are other things he wants more. “I want to be good for you.”

“Babe, you are,” his hands run down Danse’s chest, tucking up into his shirt to rub against his abdomen. “You're gorgeous, look at you, fuck,” Vishnu laughs, “and so loyal, right?”

Danse nods.

Vishnu's fingers go from stroking to tapping hurried patterns against his skin.

“I love you.”

“Sir-”

Sir cuts him off with his mouth descending, sharply to Danse’s own. Blotting out anything else he might say. Pushing down his underwear, Sir’s hand wraps around Danse’s cock, stroking far too quick. He’ll come too soon, before Sir can make proper use of him. And fuck, does he want to be used. He wants to be punished for his transgressions. For watching the vid on repeat. For memorizing every line, every movement of 12.10.72. For miming lines that were not his to say. For being such a fucking degenerate. He's wrong, wrong, wrong.

But Sir is gentle with him, kind. He tries to wrap his hand around both their cocks before whispering, “help me.”

Danse slides his hand between their bodies, taking hold of Sir’s cock and stroking, while Sir does the same to him, squeezing tight, whispering obscenities in his ear. “Did you touch yourself while I was gone? Did you think of my cock in your ass? In your pretty mouth? I bet you did. I bet you rubbed yourself raw to the thought of it. Of being my good, good pet. Tell me what you did.”

No. And yes. Danse’s mouth opens but he doesn't know what to say. “Yes, Sir. I touched myself. I thought of you.”

Sir kisses him again, biting on his lip until Danse hisses. It will leave a mark. Maybe his stubble will cover part of it. But he can't help but think everyone knows. That for all his physical ability, his strength, the weapons he wields, the faction at his back that they despise, they know how utterly Danse belongs to this man over him, in his ear.

“Are you going to come for me, pet? Or do I need to beat your ass black and blue first? If you scream, everyone will hear.”

“I'll be quiet, Sir.”

Sir smiles, vicious and perfect. Batting Danse’s hand away, he shimmies back out of the sleeping bag. “Get on all fours.”

Danse does as he's told, the cool night air making his skin gooseflesh as it hits. With the sleeping bag under his knees, the ground is not so hard or cold. Sir picks up his slacks, pulling his belt out of its loops. 

“Take off your underwear,” Sir commands. Danse is sorry he forgot, sliding the tight cotton down and kicking it away. His cock bobs and he gets back into position. “Tell me if I need to stop, okay?” Sir kneels behind him, sometimes, always, too kind. Danse nods his head. He doesn't always want to be given the choice. Would be easier not to choose. “I got you a surprise,” Sir says, rubbing the leather of his belt against the curve of Danse’s ass, not yet bothering to strike. “But you have to promise to tell me if you don't like it, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Please, just for a second, use my name…” Vishnu sounds almost sad.

Danse swallows. “I'll tell you, Vishnu, I promise.”

“Okay, okay.”

Sir leans over him, reaching around his chest. Cool metal presses against the sensitive skin of his nipple, before biting down. Danse hisses in reply, unused to the sensation. Sir repeats the process on the other side. It's sharp, and painful, but Danse doesn't dislike it. And a weight, not too much, that drags his nipples down, but more than anything it's the pressure, the way it makes his blood thud. 

“You're so fucking beautiful. Fuck,” Sir laughs, picking up the belt again. 

Danse drops his head between his shoulders, looking back up at his chest. In the dim lighting, he can't really see what Sir has attached to his nipples, only that they're somewhat bulky, big enough to cover his areola completely. And they hurt. Oh fuck, they hurt.

“Remember, if you cry out,” Sir lifts the belt, now warmed from Danse’s skin, off of his flesh before bringing it back down with a loud clap. “Everyone will hear.”

Biting his tongue, Danse whimpers. Oh, he wants this. He wants this so badly that it hurts, the same as anything else. Sir strikes him again, harder this time. Danse can't imagine what excuse would explain away the sound of the belt against his ass.

He's struck three more times in rapid succession, before Sir rubs his fingers against his ass, over where the welts must be bright. If only the Wasteland wasn't so dark.

“Don't know about you,” Sir’s wet fingers are at his hole, stroking the ring before inserting, “But I'm about ready to fuck you. See if that can't get you to scream. Get on your back. I want to see your face when you come for me.”

Once Danse flips over onto his back, Sir replaces his long fingers with his longer cock, sliding deeper and deeper on subsequent strokes, until he's buried all the way inside. Danse keeps his calves at Sir’s shoulders, bending at his will as he thrusts inside. Sir’s hand comes to play at his nipples, the sharp thrill having shifted to a dull throb until Sir tugs at them. 

“They suit you. Pretty, like you.” Sir laughs, full of teasing happiness, “you know, maybe I could dress you up all the way. Shave you down to smooth skin, put you in a dress, stockings. But your thighs are so big. Your tits too.”

Danse is mortified, he can see them now, the flowers over his nipples, attached to the little clips behind. Oh, but he likes it. He likes the things Sir says he’ll do to him, that he can be of such use. That he could be so wanted.

Sir strokes his cock, coaxing him to come, the fullness and humiliation taking hold, he shudders, warm and wet against his chest. Sir curls his body forward to lick at it. That's too disgusting, he shouldn't.

When Sir comes, he tears off one of the clips. Danse nearly shouts in response, but stops himself short. Muffling his sob as Sir pulls the other one too. “Jhootha…” Blood rushes back into his nipples. The burn will last for ages.

Vishnu is panting as he pulls out. He sits back on his heels, his eyes are wide, almost wild. “Where did you hear that?”

Danse is still trying to ground himself, his hole twitching, empty. His nipples sore. “What?”

“Jhootha, who told you that?”

Oh. Oh no. The words that were not his to say, spilling from his mouth. He didn't mean it. He's fucked up. There's no explanation he can give that won't end in Vishnu’s anger.

“What does it mean?” All he knows is that in a moment of absolute joy, Vishnu’s husband called him that.

“You first,” he scowls, tossing away the condom.

Danse has to tell the truth. Lies don't suit him. “There was a holovid, of you and your husband. I watched it.” Still on his back, Danse buries his face in both his hands.

Vishnu exhales. “You don't know what it means?”

“No, I only heard him call you that. I watched the video many times. I shouldn't have.”

“It's okay. I guess. I don't know. I haven't seen it since...I don't want to see it,” Vishnu babbles. “Liar.”

Danse’s chest constricts, but he told the truth. Must he lay out every detail?

“I know like, six words in Hindi, max. All things my grandmother used to say. But jhootha, it means liar. Um, she would call me that, as a kid. I was always making up stories and shit. I told Nate that once. He thought it was cute, I guess. He would call me that, sometimes.”

“I won't do it again,” Danse promises. He won't. It was a mistake.

“Don't worry about it,” Vishnu leans against the wall, touching his bare feet to Danse’s, tapping at his toes. He lights his cigarette, blowing smoke into the air. “I love you. Don't worry. I'll always love you.”


	6. Hear a Ticking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oral, anal, rough sex, D/s, dirty talk, praise kink, toys

“You just have to tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” Weiss kisses just at Danse’s jaw, closer to his ear than to his chin. Then kisses again, and again, and again, until they’re lips on lips, heart against heart. He can hear his own, louder than Danse’s. Pound, pound, pound. Danse’s legs are wrapped around his hips, as he sits in Weiss’ lap, beautiful and bare, but for the thick black collar around his neck. The contrast of Danse’s paler skin against the leather is stark.

He knocks Danse backwards, until he’s against the mattress. Their hands clenched together, Danse could break off Weiss’ long fingers, one by one. What agony that would be. How sweet to be torn apart. Weiss thrusts against Danse, but not into him, their cocks sliding past one another. Danse moans into his mouth. He could stand to eat him whole. 

Danse would sit like lead in his stomach, heavy and cold, like metal. But Danse is flesh. He breaks, he burns. 

“Yes, Vishnu. I’ll tell you if you need to stop.”

They have to keep their voices low. Weiss hates it. But they’re never really alone. And Danse worries too much, too shy, too ashamed in his desires. But he shouldn’t be. Nothing they do is shameful. How could it be? He only wants for Danse to feel loved, cherished. But, somehow, Weiss knows he always comes up short. 

“Good boy,” he runs his finger along Danse’s lip, waiting for his tongue to poke out, to lick. When Danse does, Weiss sticks his finger deeper into his mouth, then two, until he feels Danse’s throat constrict. He pulls his fingers back out, wet and slick with saliva, before smearing them across Danse’s face. Danse doesn’t flinch, just staring straight ahead, eyes open, waiting. 

Weiss’ arm grow tired from having to support his weight. Shifting back to sit on his heels, he keeps one hand flat on Danse’s abdomen, perfectly cut. He scrapes a short nail along the line of definition, following grooves like a maze until he reaches Danse’s groin. His cock is fat and heavy between his legs, beautiful. Weiss wants to suck him down until he screams, milking the cum from him until he can’t think straight, then fuck him until he remembers how much he’s adored. Weiss ghosts his fingers over Danse’s cock, smiling when he lifts his hips, chasing the friction still denied him. 

“You need to learn patience,” Weiss argues, though he has very little himself. “I can’t have you misbehaving while I’m gone.” He slicks three of his fingers with lube, from the webbing between to the tips. This isn’t meant to be painful, not yet. It’s meant to be fun. “If I don’t do this,” he slides the first two in, side by side. Danse takes them easily, bucking up to sheath them fully. So much for going slow. Lacking control himself, Weiss leans forward, brushing his tongue against Danse’s cock, the taste of him painfully brief. 

Danse, pants, “Please, Sir.”

“Shhh, shh,” he whispers, “I want you too. So much.” Weiss curls his fingers inside, drawing out and thrusting back in, feeling out Danse’s sharp reactions, soothing breaths. “You’re gorgeous and I want to fuck you past the end of the next world. Fuck. But,” he folds his palm so he can slide in the third finger. Danse hisses in response. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

Speeding up his thrusts, Weiss nearly brings Danse to the edge. He can tell from how Danse closes his eyes, how his mouth opens, how his chest collapses as he stops breathing. Weiss has to slow down. Danse’s cock lays hard and dark against the lighter flesh of his stomach, straining for friction. 

“But if I leave you empty for so long.” Pulling out his fingers, Weiss reaches for the plug. It’s short, but thick. Small enough Danse can wear it under his uniform, go about his day. What a find. Just perfect to keep Danse contented, to remind him that he’s wanted, that he belongs somewhere other than this fucking ship. That he belongs with Weiss. Please, let that be true. “You'll be letting any well hung soldier use your hole.”

Danse’s eyes roll back, “I wouldn't, Sir. I wouldn't.”

Weiss presses the tapered end of the plug to Danse’s entrance, starting to slide it in. Fucking amazing, how it disappears into his ass. The flared base will keep it from sinking too far. “Are you sure because, fuck, you just gobbled that right up, didn't you?” He thuds against the base with his thumb, watching as the vibration makes Danse squirm. The muscles in his thighs twitch in response.

“I wouldn't let anyone touch me, Sir. I won't.”

“And why is that, pet?” Weiss slides two of his fingers under the leather of Danse’s collar, pulling it tight. Like this he can feel every breath, every heartbeat. It's a slow thud, Danse isn't scared. There's no reason for him to be.

“Because, Sir,” he's running out of air, his voice pinching. Weiss slides one finger back out, letting him breathe more easily. “I belong to you.”

“You do,” Weiss smiles, “you always will. Now be good, open your mouth.”

Danse does as he’s told, opening wide and waiting. The picture of obedience. So easily he fell into this role, this tangle of want. And now Weiss is trapped. He couldn’t give this up if he wanted. He doesn’t want to, either. 

Sliding up Danse’s body, he places his shins over top of Danse’s shoulders, angling his cock towards his mouth, holding it just out of Danse’s reach. His face looks so fucking good between Weiss’ thighs. Still impatient, Danse tries to strain his neck up. He should be punished, for being bad. But Weiss just wants to feel him against his skin. 

He plunges his cock down Danse’s throat, as far as it will go before Danse starts gagging. His eyes tear up and Weiss pulls back, waiting a moment before repeating, able to inch further this time. But Danse still isn’t able to take all of him. It’s okay. He’ll learn.

He likes the way Danse’s throat tightens, how his mouth fills with saliva, how his eyes go wide. But most of all, he likes that Danse wants this, that he asks for it. Weiss wants this because Danse wants this and he wants Danse to want him. Never go. Never go.

Fucking into Danse’s mouth, Weiss promises him that he’s a good boy, such a quick learner. With one hand he fists Danse’s hair, pulling at it until the roots strain to the edge of breaking. 

“Do I need to worry about this hole too? Because it’s just as sweet.”

Mouth full of cock, Danse can only groan in response. A garbled noise.

“Maybe I should gag you too. Make you leave your collar on.” He pounds his cock again, thinking of his lover so clearly, so visibly owned. Because the bruises, the marks, the cum in his ass and his stomach. Those things don’t show. “Then no one would dare touch you. Even if you beg for them to use you.”

The heat and pressure churn his insides. Danse’s pleading look sending shivers up his spine.

Weiss comes down Danse’s throat, shuddering his breaths, trying to keep from losing control. He waits until he starts to soften before pulling out. He moves his legs from Danse’s arms, letting him move freely again. Danse’s cock is still hard, precum pooling on his stomach. But Weiss doesn’t plan on letting him come. At least not until he returns to the Prydwen. It should be no more than a couple of hours, but Danse doesn’t know that. 

He kisses Danse, tasting himself still lingering in his mouth. 

“You’ll keep it in, won’t you? Show me how obedient you are?” Reaching between Danse’s legs, he runs his finger along the base of the plug. “And when I come back, you’ll get your treat?”

“Yes, Sir. Oh, yes,” Danse responds.

“Okay, good.” Weiss starts to unhook Danse’s collar, working the buckle loose, before Danse stops him, covering Weiss’ hands with his own.

“Leave it. Ah, I checked earlier. My uniform covers it.”

Weiss raises an eyebrow, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I checked from all angles.”

“No, I mean...okay. If that’s what you want.”

“I do,” Danse leans forward pressing their lips together.

\--

There is no task in particular Danse is assigned today. His standing orders from Elder Maxson are to remain with Weiss. But the order is not absolute. He need not be the man’s constant shadow. So, if Weiss is to leave the Prydwen on another mission. It is entirely at his discretion whether or not to take Danse with him.

Better that he wait here, than at Sanctuary. Or, even worse, Diamond City. Both locales make him nervous. Too many strangers, too many unknown variables. At least aboard the ship, he has the comforting familiarity of rank, of structure. 

But for now, all Danse can do is sit alone in his quarters, his shifting weight against the mattress causing the plug inside him to move.

Oh, fuck, oh.

He’s gone through the effort of getting dressed, pulling on his orange uniform, clasping every buckle, double checking every strap. He’s secure inside the suit, covered except for his head, his hands, and feet. The the leather collar sits tightly against his neck. He’d let Vishnu refasten it before leaving. The neckline of his uniform keeps the buckle depressed, cutting slightly into his throat. 

Staying in bed all day is not an option, even if he has nowhere to go. So Danse swings his legs over the side of the cot, pulling on his socks and boots before getting to his feet. There’s no mirror in his room, so he worries that the base of the plug is somehow visible? He rubs his hand against his ass, between his legs. No, it’s too small and his suit too thick. The strap between his legs does enough to hide it. He draws a ragged breath. He should leave his room. Inside, he’ll go mad, unable to find release. 

At first he can feel the movement of the plug inside him with every step, rubbing up against his prostate, teasing him, trying to make him hard again. But he tries to think about other things. He tries to breathe without feeling every notch of the collar around his neck.

This is impossible. He cannot do this. But, balling his hands into fists, he walks the route to the power armor stations. If he submerges himself in work, maybe the time will pass more quickly. And while the stairs are near unbearable, the even plank of the deck is easily crossed. There’s still the pressure, the want, but it dulls slightly. With each sure step, he grows more confident. Keeping his eyes averted helps. He does not dare look at another soul, though he can still hear them going about their business. No one disturbs him.

Appraising his armor set, Danse pulls one gauntlet from the frame. The fingers have started sticking, however slightly. Not enough to actually need the maintenance, but it will give him something simple to do with his hands. Laying the arm onto the table, he takes a deep breath. He needs to unscrew the plate to better access the joints.

It's quiet work, the hum of the Prydwen dulling the noise of the other bodies that populate the ship. The Scribes at their research, undeployed Knights joking with one another, Squires unable to keep their voices low. It all blends together in a lightly punctuated roar, words indistinguishable from one another.

Looking at the connections inside his gauntlet, Danse can't see the source of the problem. He assumed something simple, maybe a worn down plate easily swapped for a new one. But if the problem lies with the wiring, or worse yet, a software error, it's beyond what Danse can fix. Danse bends over the table, trying to look at the afflicted area from another angle.

As he bends at the waist, he's reminded of the plug inside him, in presses, making itself known. Oh. Fuck. Screwing his eyes shut, Danse tries to refocus, to keep his attention the gauntlet, but the memory of this morning comes vividly to his mind. Of Vishnu’s fingers inside him. When he swallows, he swears he can still taste bitter cum.

He straightens his back, but that's no better. Now that he's reminded he can't forget. Planting his palms on the table, he tries to will his erection back down. He can't turn around like this, his cock obviously hard inside his uniform. He can only hope the moment will pass. He tries to steady his breath, the fluttering of his insides.

Footsteps come up behind him. Danse closes his eyes. He can only hope whoever it is, does not address him directly. That they are as focused on their work as he is on his. Or he was on his. Because now he can think of nothing else but how mortifying it would be to be found out. For someone to know.

Closer and closer, the sound of boots on the perforated floor. Their owner in dangerous proximity to Danse. Sweat rolls down his neck, wetting against his collar. Reaching with two fingers to his throat, he touches his uniform, just over top of where the buckle sits.

A hand wraps around his hip, fingers curling into fabric. Shocked, Danse doesn't move, his heart stopping in his chest. It only sputters back to life when he feels warm breath against the back of his neck. “Did you miss me?”

“Knight Weiss,” he tries, desperately, to keep his voice from faltering. “I take it your mission was a success?” Vishnu was only gone for four and one half hours.

Vishnu’s hand moves from Danse’s hip, grabbing the strap on his lower back instead, right above the curve of his ass. He pulls at it, drawing the fabric tight between Danse’s legs. The pressure stirs the plug inside him. Danse has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. He should. He should tell Vishnu to stop. That this is inappropriate, unbecoming, if someone were to see them. They may already be sighted.

“The Elder was pleased,” Vishnu replies.

Danse almost laughs at that, because the Elder is seldom pleased with Vishnu. Finds his discipline to be lacking, his combat skills, subpar. But he’s worryingly close to being able to breach the Institute, and everyone knows. Danse worries that once Vishnu goes in, he will not come back out. That once he succeeds, the Elder will have little use to keep him.

They cannot continue standing here, Vishnu at his back, his hands traveling wherever they please. When he lets go of the strap, his hand snakes around again, all the way to Danse’s crotch, brushing against the stirring of his cock. “I take it there was no trouble while I was gone?”

What would someone think, if they saw them like this? Paladin Danse and his subordinate, their bodies curled together against the workbench. It’s lecherous. And there’s no reasonable explanation. Nothing about their duties, or their obligations to the Brotherhood. 

But some tightly wound part of Danse wonders, if Vishnu were to ask, voice full of warmth and wicked kindness, to drop to his knees here in the open, would he do it? Would he let himself be stripped bare? Give himself over, legs spread wide stretched against the table?

“I’d better shower,” Vishnu says, before turning to leave. 

His fingers ghost over Danse’s ass as he goes, hands stuck back into the pockets of his uniform. Danse can only crane his neck to watch, needing another moment before he’ll be able to turn around. The Brotherhood uniform doesn’t fit Weiss the same way. The arms are too short, and it’s too baggy everywhere else. It will never fit him right.

It takes Danse a moment more before he is able to push away from the table. He leaves the gauntlet where it is, still in pieces. His hands shake too much to manage reassembling it. The walk back to his quarters is as if by a dream. His footfall heavy against the walkway. 

Vishnu is already inside, leaning against the opposite wall and smiling. Once the door is closed, he does not hesitate, knocking against Danse’s chest, urging him back towards the wall. “Such a good, good pet.” He rips any response Danse may have had from his lips, biting until Danse’s knees buckle. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was gone.” Vishnu has to work the buckles first, before he’ll even have access to the zippers on the uniform. They’re not meant for easy removal. “How you were waiting for me.” He grinds his thigh between both of Danse’s, nipping at this lips with each word. Danse can’t help but reach out, to touch, gripping at Vishnu’s sleeves. “Too many fucking straps fuck.”

With the zipper finally pulled down, Danse strips himself out of his suit so Vishnu can start on his. It’s inelegant and rushed. But too much time has elapsed already. He wants, oh, how desperately he wants. To feel close and contained. 

“That you were here, with my collar around your neck,” Vishnu tugs at the leather, visible now that Danse’s uniform is off. “Held open for my cock.”

They stumble into bed. Danse can’t make words. He’s not good with them. Not the way Vishnu can be. His livelihood once based on lies. Maybe that’s part of the reason it’s so hard to believe.

“Love you, love you, love you,” he sing-songs against Danse’s cheek. Grabbing the base of the plug, he’s careful pulling it out, though he does tease, easing it back in another half inch before pulling it free. “You’re so gorgeous. Such a pretty picture.”

Danse almost corrects him. That there’s no virtue in being attractive. It adds no value to his person. It’s not an achievement, even if it were true. And such statements cannot be easily verified. Though he also finds Vishnu to be attractive, painfully so. 

“Are you ready for me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He sheathes himself in a single stroke, the plug having made Danse receptive. Neither gentle, nor patient, Sir slams into him, rocking their hips together before withdrawing. Again and again, making the bed shake, the springs strain under their weight. Sir’s hand grabs onto the collar, pulling it to wrench Danse back into his cock as the thrusts. 

“Please, Sir, please, Sir, please.” Danse won’t last, too wound up, having waited too long. 

“It’s okay, you can come. You’ve just been so, so good. You deserve a reward.”

It doesn’t take more than a few pumps of his hand before Danse comes between their bodies, his cum clinging to them both as Sir finishes, two steps behind, Danse clenching around him from the impact of orgasm. 

Vishnu smiles, leaning forward to lick the bridge of Danse’s nose. “Mine.”

Danse wipes away the saliva with the back of his hand. 

Rolling to the side, Vishnu lays on his back, trying to catch his breath. “You’re going to wear me down, I swear,” he laughs, “are you sure you’re thirty-two? Because you fuck like you’re nineteen, I swear.”

“I’m sorry?” Danse doesn’t understand.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean like, shit. Not because of that.” ‘That,’ undoubtedly being Danse’s relative inexperience before meeting Vishnu. “I meant, you’re always ready to go. I worry that I don’t satisfy you.” Vishnu stares at the ceiling. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long. But I had to make sure I could get hard again.”

“If you don’t want…” Danse is horrified that his desires might be a burden. He’s worried already that this is the case. That he is depraved, beyond helping. 

“No, trust me. I want you. Want to give you everything. That’s all. I wish I were better at it. That I could make you believe.”

That is ludicrous. This, Vishnu, is more than Danse has ever had. More than he thought possible. Even if they must be quiet. Even if no one can know. Even if sometimes he doubts any of this is real. 

Danse tries to pick his words very carefully, because in this moment, he’s contented. “I wish I were better too.”

Vishnu drapes his arm over Danse’s waist, tapping his fingers against his spine.


	7. All Our Debris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D/s, anal, bondage, collars, choking, breathplay, established relationship, praise, dirty talk, Danse is the penetrating partner here, but he's still subbing.

He's given up almost entirely on the notion of bringing Danse food. But Weiss stuffs three boxes of snack cakes into his pack anyway. Maybe Danse will pick through them while he is gone. Maybe he’ll come back to find plastic wrappers tied into rows of tiny knots tucked back into the empty cardboard boxes.

Danse refuses to leave the bunker anymore. Maybe it's for the best, for now. Weiss knows what lies ahead. But he doesn't yet know what the fallout will be. Doesn't know how loud the explosions will crack across the sky, either. Doesn’t know if Danse will be able to hear.

Riding the elevator down, Weiss listens for the sounds of the surface fading out as he descends. But it's no use, nothing is as loud as the Prydwen will be.

Danse sits on the floor, next to his bed, his back against the wall. He's wearing pants, which is more than most times Weiss visits. His feet are stretched out in front of him, toes pointed upwards in socked feet. Weiss remembers quite clearly how Danse used to be shy about his body. Irrationally so. Always covered up, though he's perfect everywhere. Over time he's become less concerned with hiding the contours of his form.

“Someone built me, to look like this,” he had said. When he knew. He’ll always know, now. 

And Weiss wishes he were religious, so he could say that they were all designed. Built to spec. But he just doesn't think that's true. And Danse hates liars. Danse should hate him.

“Danse, hey.” Weiss kneels at Danse’s side when he doesn't stir. His chest constricts when Danse finally turns his head to look. He's okay. He’ll be okay. Even if in a couple of days, he may not want to be Weiss’ anymore. 

Maybe then, Danse will want to kill him. That might be alright too. As long as it's after Weiss finishes off the Institute.

“Vishnu,” Danse smiles softly. “Hello.”

Leaning forward, Weiss kisses him, as much as Danse’ll tolerate. Throwing one leg over Danse’s hips, he straddles his body, letting their heat brush against each other. The position makes Weiss too tall in comparison, so he has to lean forward to force their lips to meet again. He rests his palms on Danse’s chest, letting them warm against his skin as they occupy each other's mouths, Danse always ceding territory.

Pulling back, Weiss asks, “Do you want to go outside?”

“Not today,” Danse sighs, playing with the end of Weiss’ ponytail. His hand travels higher and higher, until it reaches the elastic tie. He slides it down, letting Weiss’ hair fall loose around his shoulders. “It's too long,” the skin around his eyes crinkles.

“Don't like it?” Weiss smiles.

“I'm...not sure.”

And Weiss knows Danse isn't talking about his hair. There his stomach goes again, flipping around. Danse doesn't know if he likes Weiss...or not. If he likes the kisses, or not. Being held or touched or teased. Danse doesn't know, doesn't know.

M7-97 M7-97 M7- M.

But that's not Danse, not really. They share a body, though, one Danse no longer trusts. One he finds so alien, he’s given up on its maintenance. 

“Do you want to be good?” Weiss asks, the words drying up in his mouth, adhering like hard candy to his palate. 

Tilting his head to one side, Danse’s hair sticks to the bricks, “Yes, Sir.”

“Kneel on the cot,” Weiss would like to have him here, on the floor, but his knees are shot already. They creak sometimes, when he tries to stand too quick, or at the wrong angle. Casualties of miles of running Weiss used to do for the sake of vanity.

Danse crawls to his feet, climbing onto the bed, shucking his pants, and displaying himself on all fours, his thighs slightly spread, his head hanging between his arms as he waits. Weiss slides the metal box from under the bed, flicking open the unlocked latch. He pulls out what he may need, planning out his next steps. Danse's eyes do not waver, never deviating from the mattress.

When Weiss puts the collar around Danse’s neck, Danse stretches out to accept it, letting Weiss pull the leather tight, before settling on the proper notch. Just snug enough to remind Danse, on heavy breaths, to whom he belongs. Weiss is careful to set the metal buckle against Danse’s adam’s apple. Danse finds comfort in precision. Before he moves again, Weiss slides two fingers in at the back of Danse’s collar, until he struggles for breath. He holds, and holds, waiting for Danse to choke, knowing it makes him hard. Makes Weiss hard too, knowing how complete Danse’s devotion is.

Won't be forever. Might not be two days from now.

Weiss moves to sit behind him, running one hand down Danse’s spine, feeling the sharp, angular cut of muscle. His body hasn't changed, not one bit since they met. It's cruel, somehow, now, to know why. Fuck. Should he have noticed? Should he have felt it? Found it? Weiss doesn't know.

Sliding an unlubricated finger into Danse’s ass, Weiss curls his finger until Danse gasps, his hips moving back to meet the intrusion. Danse’s back arches, his spine barely showing through skin. 

He pulls his hand away, taking the rope instead. Taking Danse’s balls in his hand, Weiss draws them between Danse’s legs and away from his body, starting to loop the rope. It's smooth, nylon, as to not catch against delicate skin. Bright blue and striking. Weiss’ hands work on autopilot, tightening the loops just enough, that the color of Danse’s skin starts shifting only slightly. It will get darker, angrier with time. 

Danse is beautiful like this. Beautiful always. He brings his hand down against Danse’s balls, slapping them firmly, they bounce back into position, along with Danse’s cock.

“Do you like that?” he trails one finger along the center of Danse’s sac. 

“Yes, Sir.”

He slips his finger back into Danse’s hole. Even without lubrication, it slides a little, enough. “I am going to gag you next. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And then,” he thrusts particularly hard with his finger, liking how Danse clenches around it. “You are going to fuck me until I come. Do you understand?”

Danse hesitates. “Sir…”

“Are you going to disobey?” He tries to keep an edge of teasing to his voice. Mocking satisfaction. 

“No, Sir.”

He can practically hear Danse thinking, making sense of the command. 

“But I've never-”

“I know,” Weiss soothes. “But you're my good boy aren't you?”

“Yes, Sir,” he arches again, hips thrusting back onto Weiss’ finger. If this keeps going, Weiss might be tempted to change his mind. Danse is so, so deliciously tight. Makes such sweet sounds as he's filled…

“I'll tell you what to do,” that's half the fun, “don't worry.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Weiss selects the gag next, standing in front of Danse to slip the metal ring past his teeth. Danse holds his mouth open to accept the gag, curling his lips around the edge once it is inserted. Weiss fastens the buckle at the back, setting the leather into Danse’s hair.

“You look so good like this.” He sticks two fingers into the ring, far enough into Danse’s throat to trigger his gag reflex. As he tries to cough, he drools, wetting Weiss’ fingers. “You will tell me if you need to stop, yes?”

Danse mumbles, “Yes, Sir” around the gag, nodding to make his assent clear.

“Now, sit back on your heels,” Weiss pushes at Danse’s shoulder. He urges him back, so he is no longer on all fours, but sitting up. “Wait for me.”

He moves out of Danse’s line of sight to undress. Danse knows better than to look around the room. He keeps his hands on his thighs, his eyes straight ahead. His hard cock juts out from between his legs, bobbing slightly as he breathes. Weiss plans on enjoying this.

Stripping down to nothing, he hastily prepares himself, covering his fingers in lubricant and slicking them inside himself. Would be easier to do lying down, but he’ll make it work. It's either been...months or over a hundred years, depending on how he should reckon time. And he’s tight. Fuck. Danse has never asked for this. While Weiss may have suggested it, Danse isn't one to catch on easily. Danse is so docile in bed, so eager, but receptive. ‘Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes.’ 

When Weiss is ready, he waits a moment more, drawing out Danse’s anticipation and his own. He climbs back into bed, in front of Danse, on his knees as well. While Weiss is taller, Danse is much broader. Makes Weiss’ lungs skip for a moment, to know he’ll be under Danse. That he could be so easily ripped apart.

“Now, you're going to be a good boy, and put your cock in my ass,” he holds Danse’s chin in his hands, the remaining lube wetting Danse’s skin. Danse nods into Weiss’ grip. “I stretched myself, and even though your cock is fat and thick, it should slide right in,” he assures. He kisses at the edges of Danse’s mouth, feeling the pressure of the ring push back. With one hand, he spreads lube over Danse’s cock. It twitches in his hand. Jumps, when he dips further down to squeeze Danse’s balls.

Weiss drops his back to the mattress, spreading his legs around Danse’s hips. Danse remains unmoving on his knees, though his eyes drift to Weiss’ groin. Smiling, Weiss thinks of the best words, the ones that will put Danse right on edge. “Want your cock, pet.” He moves one leg so his calf rests against Danse’s shoulder. “Want you to fuck me. Open me up with you cock.” Shifting his hips, Weiss brushes his ass against Danse’s cock. “Fuck me.” This time it’s a command. 

He keeps his eyes open, to watch the nervousness spread over Danse’s face. The sweet, sharp desperation. But he doesn’t tap out with his fingers to stop. 

“Hold your cock in your hand,” Weiss guides, “And put it against my hole.”

Danse does as he’s told. The vibrations of his excitement hashed through with uncertainty palpable, as they’re skin on skin. 

“That’s it, pet,” Weiss smiles, “Now, push it in.” It’s wicked; Danse would like it, “You’d think after all the cock you’ve had in your pretty hole, you’d know what to do.” Danse breaches him, slowly easing in. “Or is it just that you’re such a greedy little pet, it doesn’t matter how my cock gets inside you? You just can’t wait for it. I bet you’re thinking of it now.”

Behind his gag, Danse groans, his hips jutting forward, just a fraction.

Danse is being too gentle, too cautious. But there’s sweet torture in that too. The half-fullness of the chase, even after being bound to each other. 

“That’s it, now the rest,” Weiss licks his lips. “I want you to wreck me on your cock.” Reaching forward, Weiss grabs the front of Danse’s collar. He uses it to drag Danse forward, until he has to brace himself with his arms to keep from falling onto Weiss. The sudden change in position drives his cock deeper into Weiss’ ass. Weiss hisses at the burn of it. Now, they’re getting somewhere. “Yes, like that, pet.”

He likes Danse’s body over his, how broad and solid it is. And he likes the feel of Danse’s cock stretching him open. And he doesn’t mind that Danse’s first few thrusts are shallow and unsure. Or that his leg is going to be more sore tomorrow than his ass because even in his prime, Weiss wasn’t terribly flexible. And keeping his leg bent towards his head is asking a lot from his body.

Danse’s mouth is open and wet, Weiss sliding his finger back into the ring, lashing against his tongue, pushing further back until Danse chokes again. Weiss slides two fingers from his other hand under the leather of Danse’s collar, pulling it tight. 

“Harder pet. You’re doing so well. But I need more.” Pulling his fingers back out from Danse’s mouth, he smears saliva across Danse’s cheeks. “Fuck me harder.”

Danse’s hips pick up rhythm, his cock burying deeper on each stroke. Until Weiss can feel Danse’s balls, and the rope still tied around them, slapping against his ass. He curls his fingers in the collar, cutting off Danse’s air. When Danse spasms, drool falls from his mouth onto Weiss’ chest.

“You like this, don’t you?”

Danse’s eyes screw shut. The dying embers of his hiss strangling out all other sound.

“You like fucking me? Hmm, ah.” Fuck, he missed this. “You like the way my ass feels around your cock? Remember,” he taunts, “even like this, I own you. You’re mine. So if I say you are to serve me by fucking me, you are to fuck me. Do you understand?”

There is water in the corners of Danse’s eyes. A mumbled, “Yes, Sir” around the gag. 

Letting go of Danse’s collar, Weiss takes his cock in hand, stroking it sharply in time with Danse’s thrusts. He rolls his hips up, to meet Danse halfway, trying to bring himself off. It’s not quite enough. Oh but close, so fucking close.

“On your back.”

Danse doesn’t hesitate, though his cock falls free as they shift positions. Weiss climbs atop him, sinking back down on his erection. He liked the intimacy of being on his back better. The way it felt like Danse might swallow him up, might break him in the process. But this feels better, to bounce his hips on Danse’s cock, ride him properly until he finds the right angle, pressing against his prostate as he strokes his cock. 

“Fuck, pet, you’re so good. Fuck. Fucking hell. Your cock feels so good in me.”

Sticking his fingers back into Danse’s mouth, he can feel Danse’s tongue brush over the digits, making them wet again. He’s close, close, close. Pressure and heat and the beautiful scene of Danse pliant and gagged beneath him. His eyes drifting open and closed, like he’s between two worlds at once. 

Weiss puts his hand over top of Danse’s collar, pushing down and curling his fingers to choke him with one hand. He waits for the moment of desperation in Danse’s eyes. But he can’t come, not with the cord wrapped tightly around his balls.

As Weiss comes, thick spurts across Danse’s chest, then aiming higher towards his neck and face, he slaps Danse hard across his cheek. Redness welling almost instantly upon contact. Danse groans around his gag, his back arching off of the mattress as Weiss milks his cock with hurried spasms he can’t control. 

“Shit, shit,” Weiss hangs his head, trying to get his composure back. He shouldn’t have let himself cum. But all of it felt too good, too alive and wonderful. He reaches behind to unknot the rope, pulling it away and freeing Danse’s balls. Can be just as painful to have the blood circulate again. He rubs his palm over each one in turn. “Do you want to come in my ass?” Really, in the wake of his own orgasm, Weiss has very little opinion on the matter. But he wants to make sure Danse is happy, satisfied. He bounces his hips a little on Danse’s cock. “Would you like that? Knowing I’m filled with your cum?”

Danse groans in response, rocking his head against the pillow. 

“Come for me, pet. I want to feel you.” He scrapes his short-cut nails down Danse’s chest, through the ropes of his own cum. “Want to be wet with your cum.” When Danse finds release, he whimpers through his orgasm, his hands coming to Weiss’ hips for the first time, holding them flush together as he empties. The grip is strong enough to leave the impression of fingertips behind.

Weiss hurries to unhook the gag, but leaves the collar on for now. As Danse’s mouth closes, Weiss kisses him gently. Making sure he’s okay. He lifts his hips up, letting Danse’s cock fall out of him. “You did so, so well, love. Fuck.” Weiss runs his hand down Danse’s chest. “Did you like it, though?”

Danse curls his body onto his side, matching up their frames as best as they’ll fit on the too-small bed. It’s barely enough for one of them, much less two. 

“Yes, Vishnu, I liked it.”

Taking his fingers to Danse’s collar, he works open the buckle, pulling it away from Danse’s sweat-slicked skin and dropping it to the floor. The metal clinks against the concrete. 

Weiss soothes against Danse’s back, liking how their bodies fit together. This may be the last time, knowing what is to come. But Danse doesn’t know. He can’t. Well, he will soon enough. “Would you want to do it again?”

“I...might.”

Weiss smiles, kissing into Danse’s hair.


	8. Hands Upon the Wheel (AU; Vishnu/Nate/Danse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pre-war" AU threesome. Suspected infidelity (but inequality of information for sure), m/m/m threesome, oral, anal, exhibition, dirty talk, some mild humiliation, rimming/fletching, some mild suggestion of pet-play, references to bondage, object insertion, uhh, I'm sure there's more.
> 
> the really important one here that might not be everyone's kink is fisting. Danse gets fisted, okay? 
> 
> And while he subspaces and 100% enjoys the sex, there is virtually no aftercare following. This is totally consensual but no one here is exactly a good role model or exercises good judgement.

The doorbell rings while Danse is still in the shower. Shit. He's alone in the tiny apartment he shares with Haylen. She's still out on deployment for another six weeks. Even then, she might not be coming back to Boston. But her portion of the rent is still auto delivered and her belongings are still stacked in the closet. So this is as much her place as it is his.

“Coming!” he shouts loud enough to be heard over the water and through two sets of doors.

He rushes out of the shower, barely managing to towel off before pulling on a fresh tee and his old jeans. Water drops against his shoulders. He didn't have time to dry his hair.

There’s a courier waiting with a package and a letter. Everything is paid for but she needs a signature to leave it. Danse wonders what it is Haylen could've ordered, but on second glance, it's his name on the package. Signing quickly, Danse takes the package from her hands. He doesn't know if he's supposed to tip her. She bounces back down the hallway before he can ask.

Starting with the letter, Danse rips the paper. Scrawled on heavy cardstock, it reads. “Heard you were in town. If you don't have plans, meet me at 7? I sent something appropriate to wear. -VAW.” Below that is a more carefully printed address, somewhere in the Commons. Danse pulls out his phone to look up the address, finding it to be some ludicrously expensive restaurant he can't pronounce the name of.

Still not bothering to open the box, Danse flops down on the couch, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He shouldn’t go. Vishnu Weiss’ number is in his phone. He should text him and tell him no. That he’ll send back whatever is in the box.

Danse met Weiss almost a year ago in a bar up near Beacon. Haylen and Rhys left him alone to scope out the dance floor, and the tall, lanky lawyer slid up to take their place. He’d paid for Danse’s drinks the rest of the night, punctuating pleasant conversation with brushes of his long fingers higher and higher up Danse’s leg. By the time last call rolled around, Danse had been pleasantly drunk and practically vibrating, desperate for any sort of affection Weiss offered.

They’d met again, a couple more times while Danse was on leave, before he’d realized that Weiss had a boyfriend. Someone away a lot for work. “Nate.” 

Danse knew then that he was nothing more than a momentary distraction, a balm for lonely nights. When Weiss’ hand wasn’t enough for him. 

Haylen had encouraged Danse to break it off. To stop coming every time Weiss called.

But he couldn’t. He can’t

Haylen is right. She is a much better judge of these things. People things. Danse knows he is hopeless. And in between texts and calls and unexpected packages, he knows whatever...this is with Weiss, is wrong. But at the first suggestion of seeing him again, Danse’s resolve breaks. 

Picking up the package, Danse cuts open the tape, opening the box. Inside is clothing. A suit, dress shirt, pair of shoes. All very carefully folded as to not crease with delivery. As he starts pulling out the items, Danse groans. It’s all stuff costly enough to pay his rent for months. He doesn’t even have to search the brand names. He knows. 

Seven pm is still a long way off. Danse hangs up the shirt, the jacket, folds the slacks, places the shoes by the door. He should tell Weiss no. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to go to whatever restaurant either. He’d be happier just to grab a drink whereever. Someplace with shitty beer and hard liquor that would go straight to his head. Fuck, he’d be happy enough just to get thrown face first into a mattress too. To have Weiss fuck him into oblivion and breeze off, offering an early morning briefing as an excuse. 

Fucked. Danse knows he’s fucked. 

Because more than that, he wants Weiss to linger in bed with him, to be there in the morning. He doesn’t want to be his secret fuck, who only exists when it’s convenient for Weiss.

But the hours pass. And Danse never sends a text saying that he’s not coming. And at five-thirty, he starts to dress. When everything fits, he has to squash the fluttering in his chest. It doesn’t mean anything that Weiss got his size just right. Anyway, he still looks ridiculous. The suit isn’t right for him. It doesn’t look right on his bones. Even if it does fit. He struggles with the tie, not knowing quite how to make the knot sit correctly against his chest. Not that he doesn’t know how to tie knots, in a general sense. But, fuck.

Doing the best he can, Danse hopes the suit jacket can cover up his ineptitude with the tie as he heads out the door.

\--

Dasne is right on time, but Weiss is earlier, already seated at the bar. In front of him a glass of scotch and next to him a vodka. 

“I missed you,” he stands to hug Danse, leaning down to kiss the side of his head. It’s a gesture that could be interpreted more than one way. “You look amazing.” Weiss grabs the front of Danse’s suit jacket, running his fingers along the fabric. Clicking his tongue, he pulls at Danse’s tie, unknotting it. He resumes talking, as if nothing is amiss. “Have you been doing well? Your deployment was to Seattle, yes? Were you at the battle of Vancouver then?” Weiss’ long fingers thread the tie properly, the new knot settling much better against Danse’s chest. “I was so worried.”

And there it is again, the flush of warmth. Weiss miming as if he cares. He squeezes Danse’s hand before reaching for the vodka, passing it to Danse. He picks up his own glass next. “Our table should be ready.”

As if putting on the suit weren’t bad enough, sitting through the meal is excruciating. Though Weiss sent the tie for Danse, he doesn’t wear one himself. But his shirt is pressed clean, tightly tailored, the collar and top button open. Explaining that he’s come directly from the office, his eyes are rimmed red. He orders wine for the meal, asking politely if Danse prefers red or white.

“Um, isn’t it supposed to depend on what you’re eating?” Danse at least knows that much, though he can’t say what wine matches with what meat. 

Weiss laughs, “I suppose, but I’ve never really gone in for that. I just order what I like.”

“Then, I will have that.” Danse responds.

Ordering two glasses of shiraz and the escargot, Weiss tells the waitress they’ll need a moment more for anything else. 

Under the table, Danse taps at his phone, as covertly as he can, confirming that escargot is, in fact, snail. Which is way beyond his already strained comfort level. 

The wine arrives and Weiss asks him if he needs a moment more, smiling broadly. His foot taps against the inside arch of Danse’s shoe.

Hurriedly, Danse orders the first entree that has ‘beef’ prominently listed in the ingredients. Weiss asks the waitress a series of questions before settling on the tuna.

“Well,” Weiss leans forward, “I certainly don’t want to talk about my work. And I don’t want to make you talk about yours.”

Danse tries to sip his wine. It’s fine. Good, he supposes, he’s not really sure. “It’s just sort of...not dinner conversation.”

“Though I did hear about the T-60 upgrades. That they reduced the weight of the frame?” 

That is something Danse is more than willing to discuss. It leaves out the violence and gore of Vancouver while still giving him something to speak about where his knowledge might be greater than Weiss’. “Eight kilos were cut between production runs.”

Weiss smiles, settling back in his chair as they wait for the food to arrive.

\--

They skip out on dessert, which is more than okay with Danse. He’s feeling uncomfortably warm. After that first glass of wine, Weiss says they have done well enough at playing civilized adults, and orders another round of scotch for him, vodka for Danse. 

On their way out of the restaurant, Weiss asks Danse if he wants to come over, as if that’s not where this has all been heading. As if Danse would ever actually say no. Weiss’ hand rests on Danse’s hip, their bodies a fraction too close together to be simply friends. But Weiss gives him a way out, if he wants to take it. 

Danse doesn’t want to. He should, but he doesn’t want.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Weiss beams, practically skipping down the sidewalk before slowing, letting Danse catch up. When he does, Weiss slips his arm behind Danse’s back, letting his hand rest at Danse’s tailbone. “We’ll get a taxi.”

Once they’ve hailed the cab, Weiss disregards any sense of decency, curling his body next to Danse’s in the backseat, half in Danse’s lap. His legs bump against the center console. Though Danse is hesitant at first, he opens up to Weiss’ advances. The kisses start dry and brief at his neck, Weiss working loose the knot of Danse’s tie and freeing the first button, then his mouth traveling higher to Danse’s lips. Becoming wetter, fiercer. 

Danse moans back into Weiss’ mouth, his hands curling into the fabric of his slacks. He’s dizzy from the heat and lack of air, forgetting where they are. 

Weiss must know, because he breaks apart their mouths just as they arrive at his apartment complex. Danse has been here before, marble floors and fresh cut flowers in the lobby. The doorman never seems surprised to see Danse arrive, with or without Weiss. 

Tugging Danse from the backseat, Weiss passes the fare through the front window, making sure to leave a tip. He waves at the doorman, who this time does raise an eyebrow. Danse looks over himself quickly, making sure he doesn’t look obscene. He probably does. But his clothes are all still in place, if more rumpled than before. And yes, he’s dressed strangely for him, but otherwise the suit should be perfectly acceptable.

The ride up the elevator is much the same as the taxi, though this time Weiss runs his hand across Danse’s groin as they kiss against the wall. Danse already feels like he’s dying. That he’s been dying all along, in the stretches of loneliness his superficial relationships with squadmates can’t alleviate. Those men and women who only tolerate him because they’re under his command. 

But Weiss, at least, Weiss doesn’t have to do this. Even if Danse is only his distraction, his second-choice option, he’s not required to drag Danse to his apartment, to kiss him senseless in the elevator, to dress him up and take him to dinner. There’s no obligation. And, right now, that’s enough for Danse to follow him down the carpeted hall to his apartment. 

Inside, the lights are on, the curtains to Weiss’ massive windows open. 

And on the couch, legs crossed under him, a book in one hand, sits Nate. Dressed in a tee and sweats, it takes Danse a moment to register who Nate actually is.

“Captain Lavenda,” Danse is ready to turn and run. Just run down the emergency stairs and out into the streets. Run all the way back to South Boston and hide in his apartment for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever. Because even though Captain Nathan Lavenda isn’t his commanding officer, not directly, it never once occurred to him that Weiss’ absentee boyfriend is the man plastered to half the recruitment posters stuck to the sides of buildings throughout the States. That Weiss’ lover, the one he lives with, is building a life with, came out of Vancouver more decorated than Danse could ever hope to be. That, here too, he has Danse beat, by a fucking mile.

“Vishnu,” Lavenda smiles, hopping up from the couch and coming up on the balls of his feet to kiss Weiss, with a slow, comforting intensity. He pointedly ignores Danse’s presence. What possible explanation could there before Danse being here? For his lips being kiss-swollen and his hair a mess. But Danse can’t even run, his feet rooted in place by utter humiliation. 

Weiss smiles too, “Hey, predator.” He pecks at Lavenda’s nose after the kiss breaks. “This is Danse.”

“Hi,” Lavenda sticks out his hand, nonplussed by the situation laid out before him. “Vishnu told me about you.”

On autopilot, Danse shakes his hand. Of course, right. Wait, what? “He’s...told you about me?”

Lavenda nods, “Yes. He said you were very handsome. And very...obedient.” 

Danse feels his face getting hot, all the way up the stretch of his neck, to the tips of his ears. “He told you...about me.”

Laughing, Lavenda comes up on his toes again, though this time only a touch, to kiss Danse, one hand going to the back of his neck, curling in the dark hair there. “Yes,” he practically growls.

“You can still go, if you’d like?” Weiss offers. Standing behind Danse, he wraps one arm around his waist, pressing his chest to Danse’s back. With Weiss behind him and Lavenda in front of him, Danse feels the suffocating again. More than that, the embarrassment. Weiss told Lavenda about him. Potentially about everything. He’ll never be able to look at those patriotic posters again.

Weiss’ lips are at the back of his neck, brushing as he speaks. “I guess you should go?” he suggests.

Looking into Lavenda’s amber eyes, bright, happy rather than condescending, Danse replies, “I want to stay.”

“Good,” Weiss says, the vibrations of his approval skittering across Danse’s neck. “We were hoping.”

Lavenda jokes, “I told you, you should have warned him.” He has smaller hands than Weiss’. They fly across Danse’s shirt buttons, one by one pulling them apart before rucking his shirt out from where it’s still tucked into his pants. 

“But you saw it, right?” Weiss says. Danse isn’t sure what Lavenda is supposed to see. His hands are still glued to Danse’s hips, holding him in place while his boyfriend works. 

Humming, Lavenda replies, “I did. But not all of us get off on that.” 

Not knowing what to do with his hands, Danse puts them over top of Weiss’. Squeezing them as Lavenda rakes his nails under Danse’s singlet. “Maybe I should be more jealous?” Lavenda observes. “He’s taller, fitter, more handsome.”

“No he’s not,” Weiss rocks into Danse from behind, the length of his obvious erection pressing against Danse’s ass. 

Lavenda pulls his hands out from under Danse’s shirt, using them instead to squeeze his cock through his suit pants, massaging him until he’s rock hard. With Weiss’ lips still at his neck, it doesn’t take long. “Jhootha,” Lavenda teases. “We should go to the bedroom, though. Couch isn’t big enough.”

Weiss holds Danse’s hand as the two lead him to the bedroom. He’s been here too. Where the windows are just as large, just as open. Weiss has fucked him in this bed. Spread his legs and pounded him until he couldn’t see straight. Choked him on his cock, bound his hands, whipped him so hard he felt it for days after. And all this time, Lavenda knew. 

Pulling his shirt over his head, Lavenda starts stripping. He’s completely unabashed in his nudity, even if Danse is still mostly dressed, Weiss entirely dressed. He shucks his sweatpants too. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, his cock jutting out, Lavenda tells Danse it’s okay. They’ll only hurt him as much as he asks.

But it’s more comforting when Weiss says it, pulling off Danse’s dress shirt and suit coat in one go. He taps at Danse’s shoulder, telling him to lift his arms so the singlet can go too. 

Danse hesitates. The lights are on, the windows uncovered. Lavenda has never seen him naked before. It’s...a lot. Just a lot. He can see himself in the glare of the windows, his hair a mess, his cock hard in his pants. But he can also see Weiss, still behind him, and Lavenda’s nude back. He’s the only one with any fear.

Lifting his arms up, Danse lets Weiss pull off his singlet too. His dogtags settle back against his chest. He realizes Lavenda isn’t wearing his. 

“Look how hot you are,” Weiss nods towards the window. “You both are. Fuck am I lucky,” he laughs, a hand snaking down over Danse’s groin. “These need to go too,” he starts fiddling with the buttons on Danse’s slacks.

Batting Weiss’ hands away, Lavenda starts unfastening Danse’s pants instead. Shoving them to the ground, he pulls out Danse’s cock. It takes all his self control not to yelp. Weiss grabs his arms, pulling them back as Danse instinctively tries to cover himself. “You can tell Nate to stop too, if you need to, okay?”

Danse nods. He could rip out of Weiss’ hands if he wanted to, easily. Weiss is not strong, being used to sitting at a desk most of the day, standing in court the rest. But Lavenda, despite being shorter than both Weiss and Danse, is heavily built. Could actually hold Danse is place, maybe.

Tipping forward onto all fours on the bed, Lavenda licks against Danse’s cock, taking the head past his lips, stroking his tongue along the underside. Danse tries to control himself, not to buck into the warm wetness of Lavenda’s mouth. But it’s so fucking hard. Feels too good. 

“That’s enough, predator,” Weiss says, his grip loosening on Danse’s arms. Undressing himself, he leaves his clothing in a messy pile on the floor. Seemingly unconcerned with whether his things are damaged or not. 

Lavenda releases Danse’s cock, sitting back on his heels again. He runs his fingers over his own lips. “I was having fun.”

“I’m sure you were,” Weiss teases. His attention back on Danse, he commands, “Be a good boy, kneel at the side of the bed. Face the window.”

Swallowing, Danse starts dropping to his knees where he stands. 

Weiss corrects, ”On the window side. Kneel closer to the window, looking into the window. Hands behind your head too.” 

Being naked in front of the window seems the edge of too much. If someone were to see? They’re not so very high off the ground. And the lights inside are bright. But Danse obeys. The carpet is soft enough under his knees. He sticks his elbows out, keeping his hands on the back of his head. 

“Watch,” is the last command Sir gives him. 

He can see them in the window’s reflection. How they crawl into bed together, Lavenda laughing, throwing his head back as Sir whispers something in his ear. They kiss for a long time, Sir on top of Lavenda, hands running between bodies. They act as if Danse is not even in the room. Beautifully intimate and happy. Sir slicks his fingers inside of Lavenda, opening him up for his cock. Lavenda leans back against the pillows, spreading his legs.

Sir replaces his fingers with his cock, sliding all the way in on a single stroke. Lavenda yelps in surprise, then groans low as Sir begins thrusting his hips. Their bodies don’t untangle for a long while, rocking together in the bed. Danse can see it all in the window, how Lavenda scratches into Sir’s shoulders. How he welcomes his cock. 

On the floor, Danse is furious. He wants to switch places. He wants to be...he wants to exist in this world. 

“Do you like watching, pet?” Sir’s pace inside Lavenda has slowed. “Does it make your cock hard?”

“Yes, Sir,” Danse chokes.

Sir grabs onto Lavenda’s hips, pounding fiercely into him again, drawing gasps from his parted lips.

Lavenda spills onto his stomach, still smiling and floaty. Sir pulls out his cock, already softening. “Come, up on the bed,” he says.

Scrambling up, Danse doesn’t know what to do when seated on the bed. He’s painfully hard, but Sir hasn’t said he can touch himself. Only that he should be on the bed. Lavenda’s legs are still spread, his hole still wet with lube and semen. Danse doesn’t mean to stare.

“Well,” Sir starts, “clean him.”

Danse listens, crawling between Lavenda’s spread legs. Dipping his head down, he presses his tongue flat to Lavenda’s hole. He tastes of lubricant and bitter cum. Again and again Danse laps, until Lavenda is moaning, his cock growing hard again.

“Make sure you get inside as well,” Sir instructs. 

As Danse’s tongue breaches Lavenda’s hole, Lavenda’s back arches up off the mattress, his pleasured sounds intensifying. His hands come to fist in Danse’s hair, holding him in place below him. 

“Once you’re done with him, come here.”

Danse gives Lavenda a final lick before withdrawing. His stomach is still covered in cum as well. Horrifyingly, Danse realizes that Sir may have been referring to the cum on Lavenda’s stomach and chest when he was instructed to lick Lavenda clean. That it was his own desires that made him first suck the cum from his ass.

But Sir grabs him by the hair, wrenching him away from Lavenda and towards his groin. Danse opens his mouth, letting his tongue fall out to clean Sir’s soft cock. Burying his face between Sir’s legs, he cleans him as best as he can manage, excited when Sir starts to harden again in his mouth. 

“Good enough,” Sir pulls him off his cock. Desperate, Danse keeps his tongue out, trying to keep the taste on its tip as long as possible. “I bet you want to get fucked, don't you, pet?”

Danse nods, “Yes, Sir.” He's so delirious with want that he responds immediately. Too aroused now to be ashamed.

He traces one finger along Danse’s bottom lip, “And what about your mouth? I bet you want to be fed straight from the source.” His finger taps just in the center of Danse’s lip.

“Yes, Sir.”

Sir smiles, his teeth showing. “I won't be hard for while yet. But I have another idea for your greedy ass.”

Danse says nothing as Sir arranges him on all fours. Lavenda sits with his back against the headboard, slowly working himself erect with one hand. From his position, Danse knows it's Lavenda he’ll be sucking. Leaning forward, he tries to lick, but Lavenda bats him away, “Wait.”

Knocking his knees further apart, Sir gets into position behind him. He dribbles lubricant over Danse’s hole, smearing it across his back as well. “Remember last time you were here,” Sir says. “When I put that dildo inside you, right next to my cock?”

Danse hangs his head between his shoulders, “Yes, Sir.” He had felt so full. Afterward, Sir made him suck the phallus while Sir sucked him.

Grabbing Danse’s chin, Lavenda pulls his head back up, forcing their eyes to meet.

“You did so, so well. A very good boy.” Sir slips two fingers inside of him, easily breaching his hole. Danse has not been fucked since the last time he was in this bed. “Show Nate what a good cocksucker you are. Mind your teeth.”

Taking a breath, Danse leans forward again, throating Lavenda’s cock best he can. Bobbing his head, he takes the final inches down, pressing into his soft palate.

Sir slides in a third finger, still speaking words of encouragement. “You make such a pretty picture. Fuck.” He laughs, “Your head in Nate’s lap, stuffed full of my fingers. You're a real beauty. Fucking made for this.”

Only when Sir adds the fourth finger does it occur to Danse what is happening, Sir spreading and flexing his fingers, working him open until his thumb slides in as well. “Ever since I saw you stuffed open with that dildo and my cock, fuck me. I had to know. Had to know what you'd look like, like this.”

Pulling him by the hair, Lavenda yanks him off his cock. They lock eyes again. He's giving Danse the chance to say no. To stop this if he does not want it. The pressure in his ass is intense, not as much as being filled with both Sir’s cock and the heavy dildo, but close. And Sir will be able to take him much deeper. Fuck him much harder. Wreck him, utterly.

Danse strains his neck to lick Lavenda’s cock, not saying a word.

Looking away from him, Lavenda smiles instead at Sir. “You were so right about him.”

“I always am, predator.”

Sir sinks in to his wrist. Danse tries to stifle his scream, choking a sob instead around Lavenda’s cock. He's never felt like this, full and degraded and like nothing, but feeling everything as Sir pulses inside of him, dragging and clutching.

“I was right about you, too, wasn't I?” Sir’s tone is playful, but Lavenda’s cock twitches down Danse’s throat. “You were just too good for words, still are. Bet you'd switch places with him right now.”

Holding onto the back of Danse’s head, Lavenda starts thrusting into his mouth. Sir’s arm sinks deeper, just another inch, but it's enough to put stars in Danse’s eyes.

“Bet you'd like to be sucking some stranger’s cock. Getting your ass fisted,” Sir babbles. “Play with his cock, predator.” 

Lavenda reaches under Danse until he grabs at his leaking cock. Fuck, he's barely been touched but he's right at the edge. A few short strokes is all he needs. Lavenda’s hand runs over his cock, once, twice, but as Danse’s balls start to tighten, he stops, dropping his hands away. Danse wants to scream, or cry, but his lips are still wrapped around Lavenda.

“He's close,” Lavenda observes. “Really close.”

“Yeah?” Sir pistons his arm inside Danse’s stretched hole. Fuck, fuck, he can't take much more of this, his whole body trembling. “And what about you? Still thinking about trading spots?”

Lavenda groans, “Yeah.”

Weiss laughs, full of humor and happiness, “I love you so much.”

Nothing could hurt more.

“Make him come, predator,” Sir coaxes.

“I think,” Lavenda strokes him again, “You are more encouragement for him than I am.”

Sir hits something inside him that makes Danse thrash. Lavenda lets go of his cock, but this time, instead of delaying his orgasm, Danse comes, Sir’s hand still sheathed inside him. He clamps down on Sir’s forearm, screaming as Lavenda pulls away. Breaking into sobs. He’s shaking still when he realizes that his ass is empty, his hole closing around nothing.

“Come on his face, Nate.” Sir wipes down his arm, watching Lavenda and Danse.

Holding his cock just an inch from Danse’s face, Lavenda strokes himself to completion, splattering against Danse’s forehead and cheeks. When he's done, he sinks back again.

Sir comes around to lie next to Lavenda. He rubs two fingers against Danse’s cheek, collecting cum before shoving it into Danse’s open mouth. Sighing, he wipes at Danse’s other cheek more affectionately. “I'm tired.” Weiss kisses the side of Lavenda’s head. “Do you need anything, Danse? Water? You feel alright?”

Sitting back on his heels, Danse isn't quite comfortable. He's sore. “Water, yeah.”

Weiss crawls out of bed, heading for the kitchen. Danse hadn't thought this through. That he would be left alone with Lavenda. He has no idea what he should say, if anything. They simply sit in silence.

Weiss returns with a glass of water in one hand and an ashtray in the other. After passing Danse the water, he stands against the wall to smoke.

“You can stay the night if you need,” Lavenda offers, “the guest room is made up.” Getting out of bed, Lavenda snatches the cigarette from Weiss’ lips, taking a long drag before returning it.

Danse will be fine. Once he stops shaking. “No, it's alright.”

“Let me know when you're ready,” Weiss exhales smoke, “I'll call you a taxi.”

Danse starts looking for his clothes.


	9. Weiss/Lavenda, Weiss/Danse, NSFW, AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note that like, this is about a relationship (or non-relationship) coming to an end. So if you're super invested in Weiss/Danse only ever having a happy ending, this isn't for you. I've mentioned this before, but Weiss/Danse cannot happen in a healthy way while Nate is alive. This is a "pre-War" AU similar to the other one posted in this collection, but they don't actually work as part of the same timeline.
> 
> There is also a case of unwanted romantic/sexual advances being tolerated because of a perceived power difference (between Danse and Maxson)
> 
> Content warnings for the sex scene (Weiss/Lavenda): mild choking, light D/s, dirty talk, anal

Vishnu keeps both Nate’s wrists, tense under his larger hand, pinned firmly to the mattress over Nate’s head. He watches as the hard lines of Nate’s back strain, running under skin that's been kept too long in that fucking metal suit. Bleaching pale with every month Nate spends North.

Nate turns his head so his cheek rests against the pillow, hips still high in the air, grinding his ass against the front of Vishnu’s slacks.

“Please.”

Running his other hand along Nate’s spine, Vishnu taps away at bone pulling towards the surface. Nate is so fucking beautiful, he can barely stand it. When his fingers reach Nate’s bare ass, he bites his nails down, gripping hard enough to make Nate groan.

“Fuck me.”

Vishnu tips forward, blanketing Nate’s body with his longer, leaner one. He's not actually strong enough to hold Nate down. Nate, who works hard for one of those ridiculous, wank-poster-boy bodies, that ends up tacked as wallpaper in dark clubs downtown. Only Nate’s face is on recruitment posters now. Captain Nathan Lavenda. Vishnu is convinced he’ll make his next rank by the end of the year. Because once the army decides you’re going places, you’re fucking gone.

“You know you have to tell me,” Vishnu punctuates with his hips against Nate’s ass, “exactly what you want.”

Nate groans, trying to shift his weight to get more friction. But Vishnu knows exactly what his boyfriend is trying to do. He leaves his hands at Nate’s wrists, but pulls the rest of his body back. Leaving cool, circulated air to roll over Nate’s bare skin.

  
But Nate knows the game too. He fucking loves it. Has loved it since they were eighteen and so wrapped up in each other Vishnu ruined his military career before it even started. Well, mostly the thrill of hormones and their first taste of freedom got them wrecked. So tightly bound by their lack of responsibilities they forgot about growing up, or public decency.

There's a teasing edge to Nate’s voice, because as much as he likes getting roughed around, held down, spanked, and completely wrecked, as much as he likes submitting, he's no one’s docile boy. “I want your cock in my ass,” Nate says, “Want you to fuck me so hard I can't sit down at the gala.”

The gala they’re definitely arriving late to.

Vishnu releases Nate’s wrists, sitting back further on his heels to rub an open palm over the bulge in his slacks. “Show me,” Vishnu orders.

Reaching back around, Nate grabs his own ass, spreading wide and showing his hole, “Here, fuck me here.”

“Why?” But Vishnu is already unzipping his trousers, pulling his cock free and letting it curl back against his belly. Precum soaks into the white cotton of his dress shirt. He didn’t bother undressing after coming home from the office. “Why do you deserve it?”

Nate snickers, “I'm about the hottest piece of ass on the Eastern Seaboard, and you think I should be begging you?”

Leaning forward again, Vishnu lets the weight of his cock drop between Nate’s legs, running down his exposed crack, rubbing in between his thighs, against his balls. He puts his hand to the back of Nate’s neck, pushing down hard enough to restrict his breathing. “Yeah, I think I can make you beg.”

He counts the seconds off in his head, knowing where Nate’s limit is, but stopping well before it. When he pulls back, the red outline of his hand is blurry against Nate’s skin.

Nate makes a show of breathing, laughing through the end, “How are you going to that, love?”

“You'll see, Predator.”

He rubs the head of his cock against Nate’s hole, smearing precum around the rim, but never dipping in. Nate’s hands are free now, but all he does is grab the sheets, clenching down into hard fists. Vishnu keeps one hand over Nate’s ribs, barely discernible through compact muscle. He can feel the way Nate’s breath catches when he rubs his cock against Nate’s hole again, before finally slipping lower, slotting it back between Nate’s thighs.

This time, he's careful to make sure it slides against the underside of Nate’s cock just right, brushing up against his balls and dragging back. Letting go of Nate’s chest, he brings both hands to the outsides of Nate’s thighs, pushing them together to clamp around his cock. He thrusts harshly between Nate’s legs.

“Maybe I should tie you up like this,” Vishnu teases, “bind you just right so your legs are tighter than your sloppy hole,” he thrusts again, grinding his pelvic bone against Nate’s ass. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? All tied down, helpless. So I could just rut against you? In you? Make you sticky with my cum?”

Beneath him Nate groans, wordless, but not quite desperate enough.

Vishnu cants his hips three more times before pulling back, leaving Nate cold.

He puts a finger back to Nate’s mouth, telling him to suck. Nate opens, swallowing the digit down, all the way to the webbing. Without warning, Vishnu shoves two more in alongside, spreading them apart until Nate’s mouth stretches obscenely. Nate’s not shy with his teeth, scraping them over the intrusive fingers. “Are you saying you'd rather these not be in your ass?”

  
Nate can't reasonably answer with his lips still curled around Vishnu’s hand. Shoving deeper, he waits for Nate to choke around them, before dragging back out, smearing spit around Nate’s face.

“Maybe I just get myself off instead,” Nate threatens playfully. Vishnu doesn't miss the way his hips are still drifting back, thighs spreading back apart now that Vishnu isn't holding him in place.

Without warning, Vishnu shoves two spit-slick fingers into the tightness of Nate’s ass. Nate hisses, but otherwise doesn't complain. With long fingers, Vishnu can reach deep. But he knows it's not the same as taking cock. It's not thick enough, and the shape is all wrong. But Nate’s breath quickens anyway.

“Fuck….Vishnu…." It's almost there. Almost. But Nate still needs another push. Keeping his fingers buried in Nate’s ass, Vishnu reaches around to wrap his cock in his other hand, stroking him soundly, squeezing down tight, like he knows Nate likes. He listens and feels, waiting until Nate’s abdomen starts to tighten. Until he gets deliriously close. Nate is right there, at the edge, when Vishnu takes his hand away. Nate thrusts so quickly, trying to keep contact, keep the friction going, that Vishnu’s fingers slide out too.

“FUCK!” Nate sobs, face first in the mattress. “You think you’re so fucking…”

Grabbing Nate by the hips, Vishnu flips him over onto his back. Nate’s amber eyes are streaked with frustrated tears, “Are you going to listen now?” Vishnu asks.

“You're awful.”

“You like it.”

Nate smiles, parting his legs to wrap around Vishnu’s hips and drag him closer, “I do.” Tossing his head back, Nate bares his throat. “Please, please, fuck me. I want your cock in me.” Now it's desperation, though there's still joy in it. Not worth it, otherwise, if they can't find elation.

Vishnu reaches for the bedside drawer, pulling out the lubricant and a condom. Furrowing his brow, Nate asks, “When did you last get tested?”

“Six weeks.”

Nate’s voice is just above a whisper, “How many, since then?”

“None,” Vishnu isn't lying. Danse was on deployment too, and his caseload didn't leave enough time to pick up anyone else. He hadn’t really thought about picking up, this time.

“Leave it off, then.”

“You sure? How long?”

“No one, this time. Didn't fuck anyone, this time. Wanna feel your cum inside me.”

Vishnu’s breath catches in his throat, “Fuck, Nate.”

He slicks his cock and fingers, bringing them to Nate’s hole. It doesn't take much to get Nate ready, scissoring him open enough so his cock will fit, but not so much that it won't hurt a little.

Once they're slotted together, Vishnu’s hips flush against Nate’s ass, Nate’s legs wrapped around Vishnu’s back, Nate relaxes into Vishnu’s rhythm, panting soft curses while he's fucked.

The slide of their bodies is familiar by now, but no less electric. Vishnu, sometimes, thinks they were built for each other. In the silly, destiny sort of way. Nate won't say it, but Vishnu is pretty sure he thinks so too. All roads would have led them here, a fever they can't break.

Nate groans, dropping his head back against the pillow as he comes, white hot between their already sticky bodies. Vishnu keeps pumping into him, relishing in the way he clamps down tight around his cock. “Good, good, so fucking good, Predator,” he chants as Nate scatters kisses across his face. “Love you so much.”

Smiling, Nate responds, “I love you too.”

They lay together, several minutes more before the march of time makes it impossible to stay. “Going to the gala with my cum in your ass?” Vishnu teases, stroking his fingers down the plane of Nate’s defined stomach. His own abdomen is shallow, but soft, his hipbone jutting out when laying on his back. Even though he does little but sit around reading, writing, and eating, he's still losing weight.

“Oh fuck, while that sounds hot as hell,” Nate laughs, “going to formal events plugged never works out.”

“I thought you had fun at my graduation!”

“I did!” Nate clarifies, “but that was what, five years ago? My ass just isn't that durable anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vishnu agrees, patting Nate’s ass, “national treasure, I know.”

They manage to untangle, Nate stumbling off towards the shower first. While they get ready for the gala, they somehow manage to keep their hands to themselves, switching places in the shower, Vishnu putting on a fresh suit, and Nate in his dress blues.

It's not until they're almost out the door that Nate says low, under his breath, that Vishnu’s cum is definitely still inside him. Vishnu can't help the smile that tugs at his lips, even if Nate’s a liar too.

\--

The waitress passes Danse a third time, delicate champagne flutes balanced on her tray. She's asked each time if Danse would like a drink, and on this third time, he says yes.

Holding the tray before Danse, she waits for him to choose his glass. They are all the same. Danse doesn't know why he has to choose. So he takes the closest one to him, even though, maybe because? it is slightly more full than the others. Putting the glass to his lips, he remembers that champagne has bubbles, prickling against his lips.

Danse scans the room again, and again, and again, though little changes. There must be several dozen people at the gala. Soldiers and spouses, prominent officials. All sharply attired in dress uniform and stunning civilian clothes.

Danse feels out of place. Knows he's out of place, despite the heavy card-stock invitation sent to his apartment, inky black lettering with “and guest,” tacked on after his name.

His ASU fits him awkwardly, pulling in the wrong places and bunching up. But he likes the service distinctions, pinned in place on the front. He thinks of the suit he owns that fits him well because it was sent by Vishnu Weiss. Tailored through his broad shoulders, rounded chest, tapering at his waist. A gift, in exchange for attending dinner with the lawyer.

Afterwards, Weiss fucked him senseless against the wall, driving his cock deeper, deeper until Danse’ teeth rattled in his skull.  
Weiss is the only person Danse could have possibly considered as a “guest.” The only civilian he really...knows. Danse isn't even sure if he knows Weiss. They are little more than a few shared dinners, drinks, rough fucks back at Weiss’ finely appointed apartment. Danse never spending the night.

Still, Danse sent Weiss three text messages about the gala. All went unanswered. Of course they did. Captain Lavenda is home as well.

Haylen and Rhys stand together at the bar. While Haylen smiles, Rhys scowls, but his eyes are bright, focused on Haylen’s mouth, mumbling something Danse can't hear. It's good, that they are able to relax. It's so seldom they're all on leave together.

  
But the war is supposed to be over now. That's what the banners say, “Welcome Home!” And “Victory!” But when the banners went up, the recruitment posters didn't come down.

If told to fight, Danse will go again. He has no compelling reason to refuse. They’ve been home for less than a week, and already, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He sips his drink again, scans the room. Scans the room. The rear exit is blocked by the bar and partygoers. There are armed guards at the front door.

Danse misses the footsteps at his side.

“Having fun, Lieutenant Danse?”

Stiffly, Danse responds, “Of course, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Arthur Maxson stands to his left, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. The young man is short, just breaking 5’6”, and compact, thick arms filling out his dress uniform. As the General’s son, certain niceties cannot be avoided. But Danse considers himself a poor conversation partner. But Maxson is always so persistent in his...kindness.

“You should be out there enjoying yourself,” though Maxson is young, almost everything he says sounds like a command.  
Danse thinks that one day, Maxson will make an exceptional leader. But for now, he is impulsive, and a little rash. Painfully open with his change of moods. He does not know if others notice, though Haylen has referred to him as a “brat” before. Danse maintains the utmost respect for the younger Maxson, his flaws will wear away with time.

None of that, however, makes his unwanted affections any less uncomfortable.

“I’m fine here,” Danse says, “I like watching people.” That statement is true. While crowds still make Danse uncomfortable, there is something soothing about watching others in their happiness.

Lieutenant Maxson, touches his fingers against Danse’s sleeve, smiling coyly, “You’re always planning, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Danse responds curtly. He doesn’t brush Maxson’s hand away. For now, the touch is innocent enough.

If asked, and no one ever will ask, so that’s a relief, Danse isn’t sure he could articulate why he doesn’t want Lieutenant Maxson. His face is pleasant, scarred across the blunt of it from a piece of shrapnel he took in Alaska, with plush lips, striking eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. He’s objectively handsome.

Yes, Danse is afraid of repercussions. What Maxson might say if Danse outright rejects his sloppy invitations. The Maxson family is exceedingly well connected, and Danse is noone. An enlisted man who’s been lucky enough to survive tour after tour, earn his rank. But that only adds up to so much.

So he lets Lieutenant Maxson leave his hand on his arm, for as long as he would like.

One of the gala organizers rushes over to them, spitting out they’ve been looking for Lieutenant Maxson everywhere. Well, his father has been looking. He’s supposed to be in pictures now.

Without any deference to Maxson’s station, she pulls at his sleeve, dragging him away and dropping apologies to Danse, even if she doesn’t know his name. Danse wishes there were a better way to thank her for the service she has done.  
When the waitress comes around again, he takes a second glass.

He’s thankful, at least, that she’s already stepped away when he almost drops it.

Vishnu Weiss is standing at the bar, waiting for his tumbler to arrive. He takes the glass from the bartender, smiling brightly as he pushes away, making room for the next patron.

Danse’s heart thuds in his ears. Why is Weiss here? Of course he is here. He is here with Lavenda, who, with his easy smile and gentle grace, is popular all around. Lavenda is charming and effervescent, even if he does not speak much, choosing his words carefully and drawing others in.

Nostrils flaring as he breathes, Danse sways away from the pillar, to go greet Weiss. At the very least, he could have responded to those texts. Let Danse know he was coming.

But he didn’t, because Weiss came with Lavenda.

Lavenda is his boyfriend, his partner. Danse is not. Danse knew this. Well, he didn’t know Weiss’ partner was Lavenda, at first. Lavenda wasn’t so well known, two years ago. But Weiss was always forthright that there was someone.

Danse stops in the center of the room, his heart rate slowing down. This is...he cannot do this. What would it accomplish, saying hello to his lover and his lover’s boyfriend? Weiss passes his glass to Lavenda, smiling bright, his dark hair slicked back for the occasion. Lavenda holds the glass carefully, putting it to his lips, then passing it back to Weiss.

They are easy, natural with their affections, Weiss wrapping his arm around Lavenda’s back. His hand settling on his waist and pulling their bodies close. Danse isn’t close enough to make out the words, but Weiss talks while the others laugh, hanging on every word.

Danse cannot do this. What would it accomplish?

But he wants to be the one standing at Weiss’ side while others listen, he wants their sides pressed close, sharing heat and affection and private smiles.

“Danse!” Weiss waves at him.

Oh, shit.

Danse doesn’t know why he thought himself invisible. The illusion comes crashing down, shattering around his feet like snowflakes. Now that Weiss has gestured to him, he has no choice but to approach.

His feet leaden in the confines of his shoes as he steps towards the crowd. Weiss is still beaming bright, his arm around Lavenda’s waist. Lavenda stares back. He looks just like the posters. With one exception.

“You’re shorter than I thought…” Danse blurts out.

If Lavenda is offended, he doesn’t show it, tilting his head to one side and answering, “I get that a lot. Even when I’m not standing next to Vishnu.”

“This is Lieutenant Danse,” Weiss explains, as if Lavenda doesn’t know who he is.

“It’s horrible of me, that my partner has to introduce us. I really should do a better job of remembering people’s names,” Captain Lavenda offers his hand, “come on, we’re having fun. Don’t be so formal.”

Danse still can’t relax his shoulders, but he takes Lavenda’s hand, it’s small, but calloused. Lavenda is a top-flight Power Armor specialist. Considered one of the best when he left the academy. And over the course of the War, he’s proven it.

“I wish we weren’t forced to wear these,” Lavenda pulls at his dress uniform. It fits him perfectly. “I’d much rather get back to civilian clothes.”

“You like the attention,” Weiss teases. Danse watches as his long fingers curl tightly around Lavenda’s narrow hip before his attention shifts back to Danse, “What are you drinking?” he gestures to Danse’s now empty glass.

“I...uh,” Danse feels very small. Under a microscope of attention. Because if Weiss and Lavenda are looking at him, that means all their acquaintances are too.

“I’ll be right back,” Weiss assures, even though Danse hasn’t answered. He takes the champagne flute from Danse’s hand, heading back towards the bar.

Once Weiss is gone, Danse thinks about stepping away. Heading back towards the edges of the room. But Lavenda reaches for him, pulling him into the gap between him and a beautiful woman in a red dress with dark lips, where Weiss stood before.

No one addresses him directly. Lavenda doesn’t look at him again. Instead, they all listen to an engineer from the advanced weapons laboratories at CIT go on and on about her work on the newest line of energy weapons, what little of it isn’t classified.

Weiss taps Danse on the shoulder when he returns, passing over a bottle of beer with a smile, “I know what you like, don’t worry,” he says before slotting in on Lavenda’s other side.

Danse can wring the bottle’s neck all he likes, this evening won’t die soon enough.

\--

Nate’s pulled away for photo ops by one of the event planners. His hair piled high on top his head in a messy bun and clipboard in his hands. He shoos Nate towards the photo set-up, brightly lit and shockingly public. Nate rolls his eyes as he goes.

“Want another drink?” Vishnu asks Danse, once Nate is gone. He hasn’t even finished half of his beer, but Vishnu’s scotch is empty.

Danse nods, padding along behind Vishnu in his ill-fitting dress uniform. Maybe his hair was all in place when he left his apartment, but now Danse looks a wreck. Though his hair is short, it sticks out at odd angles, making him look younger than he is.

Vishnu should have let Danse be, and said nothing when he saw him on the floor. But Vishnu thought, maybe, Danse wanted to come join the conversation.

Vishnu should have left him alone two years ago, when he saw him, beautiful, perfect, in that bar. Looking sad, with downturned lips and gentle eyes.

At the bar, Vishnu makes sure they have their drinks, but doesn’t lead them back to the group of Nate’s chatty friends. Instead they walk to the edge of the room, silence blanketed between them.

“You didn’t respond to my texts,” Danse huffs, “you could have at least said something.”

Vishnu knows Danse is right. “I’m sorry, things have been busy. With Nate home.”

The way Danse pouts is charming still. He’s impossibly fine-featured. It’s why Vishnu was, is, so attracted to him. But they have to stop. They both do.

“Why,” Danse croaks, but he can’t finish his question.

“I’m sorry,” Vishnu admits, and he is. Because none of this was meant to be cruel. He should have known better.

“You’ll always choose him. Won’t you?” The question finally comes. Though maybe not in the phrasing either one of them would have chosen.

“It was never a competition, Danse. And it was my mistake, that you took it as such. You were just…”

“I know,” Danse admits, drawing a shaky breath.

Vishnu claps him on the back, leaving his hand on Danse’s shoulder, while they watch the photographers push Nate around to pose him how they want. From this distance, Vishnu can’t make out what Nate is saying. But, as much as Nate complains, he fucking loves the attention. Vishnu is sure of it.

Vishnu Weiss resolves to be a better man.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated!
> 
> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


End file.
